War Stories
by coruscantbookshelf
Summary: AU! Immediate sequel to Restored To The Light. A variation on the venerable theme of 'the past coming back to bite one'. Or, in this case, two.
1. Chapter 1

"… so _then_ , he does this wild kriffing sai cha stroke on this battle droid. I mean, we're both standing on the wings of our fighters, ready to go, when these droids show up! And Obi-Wan cuts a couple down like that doesn't make sparks, and like there isn't a total tibanna leak into the hangar –"

"That's enough, Anakin." Obi-Wan speaks up hastily. "I'm sure the children don't need to know about that."

"I was telling Qui-Gon," Anakin retorts, but stops short of telling the mission-report truth: that they had both dived for their cockpit controls and taken off just in time, afterburners mixing with the edge of the fireball, leaving the droid control ship to explode behind them.

"Oh, we can top that," Bruck snorts from his chair in the corner. "Right, Xanatos?"

It is one of the comfortable days, rarer since the war, when the whole family all has a few spare hours in the Temple at the same time. On such occasions, years of habit dictate that everybody will congregate, seemingly at random, in the main room of the quarters now shared by Tahl, Qui-Gon, and Nasriel. Today, because of the lack of chairs, and the two Padawans collected since the last family meeting, which took place before the Battle of Geonosis, all of the children including Anakin are sitting on the bare boards of the floor. Xanatos, in deference to his age, and Bruck and Bant, in deference to their status as Master and Healer respectively, occupy the three chairs. Qui-Gon and Tahl have – as is right in their own quarters – the ends of the sofa, and Obi-Wan, as the only Council Member present, sits between them. He offered to join Anakin on the floor, to give one of the girls a better place, but was shouted down. Anyway, Nasriel at least is perfectly happy where she is, cross-legged on the floor at her Master's feet. And Ahsoka has sole possession of a patch of winter sunlight.

"With what, Padawan," Xanatos enquires wearily, "could we top a two-seconds-to-spare escape from singlehandedly winning the battle for an entire planet?"

"With the Lisarith incident, Master. That was -"

"There are ladies present," snaps the dark-haired Master, stabbing his finger toward his former apprentice, emphasizing each word.

Obi-Wan, the "Great Negotiator" – which HoloNet nickname nobody ever allows him to forget – changes the subject before Bruck and Xanatos can embark on yet another of their all-too-common bitter quarrels. "Nasriel, may I tell about the time you and Qui-Gon came with Ben and me on our first mission together?"

"You may," Nasriel sighs resignedly.

"Thank you. We were on a war mission –"

"Oh, yeah?" Ahsoka interjects, voice colored with a cynical twang that seems oddly misplaced on so young a Padawan. "What other sort of mission is there?"

Obi-Wan continues serenely. "On a war mission, at – that's still classified. Enough to say that we were on foot, in jungle terrain, with a hundred and fifty kilometers to cover in five days. I had thought at first that Ben might slow us down –"

"Because I'm the youngest – but not the smallest – and least used to long-haul," Ben explains.

"Quite. However, as events transpired, if he had been holding us up I doubt we would have noticed."

"Nasriel thought like she was _so_ hungry, and ate some poison berries or something and she was totally puking up her guts." The irrepressible younger Kenobi takes up the story with gusto. "And we were _really_ punching it, like so much she had trouble keeping up."

"What Qui-Gon and I didn't find out until much later," Obi-Wan firmly reappropriates the narrative, "was that we had calculated rations assuming Nasriel would, as usual, be able to obtain most of her energy from sunlight. Which in thick jungle is simply not the case. However, we reached our objective in time, and the mission was a success." What Obi-Wan deliberately neglects to relate is that Nasriel, after struggling for some hours to carry on, fainted, and Qui-Gon, without breaking stride, tossed her pack to Ben, his own to Obi-Wan, and slung his unconscious Padawan over one shoulder, continuing the journey at the same grueling pace as before, though more heavily loaded. Obi-Wan also does not mention having overheard, on the hyperspace jump home, Qui-Gon delivering the harshest scolding of his entire career. Nasriel had stood, head bowed, blinking back tears, and accepted the verbal scourging as nothing other than her due. Presumably there was some sort of reconciliation later, but with these two, it is impossible to be sure. More likely, they have simply closed the incident as if it had never happened, and carried on as normal.

"Where have you guys been, Bruck?" Nasriel asks. Bruck and Xanatos appeared late, and still dusty and travel worn. "Xan didn't say anything."

"Mando Space," the blond Master answers shortly. "Tracking down one Jango Fett, who _somebody –_ " glancing meaningfully at Obi-Wan "– had at 'saber-point during the Geonosis battle, and allowed to walk away. The man's dangerous, Bi-An. And the cloners need him at Kamino."

"Did you find him?" the Saalisan Padawan asks innocently.

"Oh, _finding_ is easy," Xanatos smiles, a bitter edge to his relaxed tone. "Getting him to _go_ anywhere with you… that's another matter." He casually hitches back his sleeve, showing a still-raw blaster burn beneath the scorched fabric. "So we have expressed huge reluctance to be assigned to this mission again."

Anakin sighs, and nudges Ahsoka. "That'll be us, then – unless the experts call it. Qui-Gon, you and Sriel are ace at these manhunts; do you want this one? Because I need to run some upgrades on –"

"We're still off-roster, but I can ask to be assigned to it."

"Don't – don't volunteer for the mission, Master," Obi-Wan urges. "I will explain. Later."

Later, much later, when Bant has returned to her duties at the medcenter, insisting Xanatos and Bruck go with her to have their injuries seen to, and Ahsoka and Ben have been ordered home to bed, and Anakin has slipped out, probably to rummage in the lower-level scrap piles for parts, and Tahl has quietly retired for the night, Obi-Wan keeps his word.

"Don't volunteer for missions as a team for a while. It's… Master Gallia asked me to tell you that you are being watched."

"By whom, and on whose orders?"

"By half the Temple, on Master Windu's orders. The Council – most of the Council – some of the older Council Masters – are concerned. I mean… you have noticed, haven't you, that our Sriel sticks to you closer than ever nowadays? And since Dooku was your Master, and since… in brief, the Council is afraid they may be dealing with a second Komari Vosa."

"That's absurd."

"That's what I said. Unfortunately, though _we_ both know Nasriel's not her usual self just now – she's only been home a month – and we both know _why_ , I don't care to betray secrets entrusted to me, so I couldn't explain."

"She would have understood if you had."

"Would she?" Abruptly, Obi-Wan leans forward to address Nasriel. "Would you let me tell the Council what happened while you were away?"

"No. They know I was kidnapped – that's enough. Once the Temple rumor mill gets started, who knows what people will say?"

"Exactly. So you will have to watch your step. Spend more time with Kijé or your other friends to even things out."

"I can't!" Nasriel springs to her feet, and stands facing them. "You don't understand, Bi-An. I feel _safe_ with Qui-Gon. And it's so long since I've been safe."

"Fine. Fine." Turning back to his former Master, Obi-Wan adds, "Still, don't volunteer for missions. It could look too much like trying to get time together away from… supervision, if you will."

"Obi-Wan – oh, sit down, Nasriel." Qui-Gon motions for the Padawan to resume her place, and she deliberately misinterprets the silent command, coming to sit on his lap, head pillowed on his shoulder as if sleepy, glaring indignant defiance at Obi-Wan.

The younger Master nods grimly. "And that, young lady, is what gets you in trouble."

"In private, it's harmless," Qui-Gon defends her. "Who is saying this, Obi-Wan? Just you talking to me, or are there others?"

"Master Windu. Depa," Obi-Wan enumerates, suddenly reluctant, aware his statements are met with disbelief. "Master Koon. Master Yoda. Master Secura. And Bruck. Depa – on behalf of her Master, I suspect – asked the family if we'd noticed anything unusual. Only Bruck agreed to talk to the Council."

"Are Ani and Snips in danger too, or just us?" Nasriel wonders.

"Anakin all but ignores Ahsoka, and if she minds that she doesn't say so. Also, he doesn't have an established pattern to break, in terms of whom he trains. Qui-Gon does, and he broke it by taking you on. Ahsoka hasn't been a Padawan long enough to set a behavioral pattern. You have, and it's changed dramatically since you came home."

"I can't help that," the Padawan objects.

"You'll have to. It's that, or explain to the Council exactly what happened – _all_ of it, or close to all – or you two _will_ be broken up."


	2. Chapter 2

Nasriel is evidently making an effort to return to her former habits, for by the time Qui-Gon wakes the next morning – still early enough to enjoy the sunrise – the Padawan is already up and dressed, kneeling on the balcony, meditating with one of the pot-plants as an anchor. The sharply fresh scent of halsamint soap hangs in the air, and the Force bears a familiar faint glitter.

"I missed this one," Nasriel remarks, dropping easily out of her trance and stroking the plant's crisp golden leaves. "I – can we go back on the lists, Master? We've had long enough at home, and there's work to be done. I'm fine. I've meditated on what happened, and I… can release it."

"What have you learned?"

The Padawan looks away. "Obi-Wan told me about after the Zan Arbor case, so I knew that question was coming. I've been trying to think, but I don't know what I learned. It must have been something, it _must_ , but I don't know what. I know what you said: until you've learned from an experience, you can't fully release it, and until I'm past this, we shouldn't go on the list. But can we anyway? I think I could work through it better away from the Temple."

"How far did you run this morning?" Qui-Gon changes the subject, not as deftly as usual, a deliberate signal that the Padawan's request has registered, but that he will not give an answer yet.

"Only about two klicks. Thought I might sort of ease back into it. And running helps me think." She glances up at him, and smiles shyly, a momentary flash of pointed white teeth. "I'll have to disappear soon – I'm meeting Kijé in the gardens, and we'll go on to our math class together. If that's okay."

This is good. Nasriel's old friend Kijé Yenseh has been all but abandoned since the girl's return home. Though he has repeatedly applied to Qui-Gon for information – _is Nasriel okay? She's still enrolled in classes, right? Um, sorry to be a bother, Master Jinn, but is Nasriel mad at him over something?_ – the boy has the patience of a far older Jedi, and waits. That Nasriel and Kijé are together again suggests a return to some form of normality, and also promises a reduction in the amount of time the girl can spare to spend with her Master.

At noon, Tahl returns, weary but satisfied, from her researches in the Archives. Daily now, in this age of constant missions, she slips away into the odd hours of the night, searching expertly through the blue shimmer of files she can no longer see, compiling summaries of planets, trade-routes, ships, people, for the benefit of the active mission teams.

"Today," she informs her friend, "I was working on Jango Fett. It's with the Council now, so whoever takes it will be gone by the end of tomorrow."

By midafternoon, Mace Windu has read enough to send for Qui-Gon. So many missions are dispatched nowadays, and the Council has so much else to do, that full sessions are no longer called even for the commissioning of the most major missions.

"I know you're off-list, but this is your field. Young Threeb will have to cope somehow. DuCrion's report was less than exhaustive," the Korun Master scowls. "Get any more information you need from him, and be on your way before night. This mission carries the highest priority."

Leaving Windu's office, illogically relieved that Obi-Wan was not chosen to dispatch the mission, Qui-Gon comms Nasriel to have her sign for some necessary equipment at the stores, and goes to talk to Xanatos. At around the time the afternoon's chemistry practical class ends, Nasriel appears back at the quarters, in company of one Padawan Sima Orezna and the equipment she had been sent to fetch.

Sima bows nervously, dropping half of what she is carrying, as soon as she realizes Qui-Gon is home: Nasriel's friends generally avoid stopping by when any risk exists of meeting Nasriel's Master.

"I – pardon me, Master Jinn, I hadn't – that is, I… didn't have a class and Nasriel did, so I went to the quartermaster instead." Sima darts away as soon as she can politely do so, and Qui-Gon turns to Nasriel.

"Getting your friends to do your work for you?"

"Sima offered, Master. She figured I'm enough behind in my studies without skipping classes to run errands."

"It was kind of her. Go pack your things. The ship's fueled and ready, we're only waiting for you."

Because his own pack has been filled and secured the past hour, he can spare a few minutes to lounge idly in the doorway of the Padawan's room, and watch her. Nasriel moves about like a hummingbird, now hovering, now darting, swift and coldly efficient. Very different from his own way of handling chores, serene and thoughtful, turning even the most mundane of tasks into a kind of moving meditation. That said, Nasriel does get through the job faster, and the thought raises a smile. It is a proverb in the Temple that a Master knows he has chosen well when he ends up learning from his Padawan, as well as vice versa.

"Nasriel."

"Yes, Master?" She looks up, hands still flying about their work. She is not a beautiful child. Had she been, she would still have been apprenticed first of her agemates – albeit to someone else. Beautiful younglings, in Qui-Gon's opinion – and he has met enough of them to form one – learn all too early to take advantage of their looks, and never bother to learn more reliable ways of staying out of trouble. The unbeautiful, the ordinary, children like Nasriel is and Obi-Wan was, tend to have rather more character, sharper wits. They have to. Nasriel is not beautiful, but striking and sharp and fiery, with all the unpredictability of a summer lighting-cloud – and as little capacity for holding grudges.

"I think you should take this," he says at last, handing over a small, soft paper notebook, bound in worn and begrimed white leather. "Start your journal again."

"How d'you know I haven't?" Nasriel teases lightly. "You promised never to open it."

"It was in your pack when you were taken, and it's been on my bookcase ever since."

"Okay." She slots the journal in between a spare tunic and a small toolkit. "There. Ready."

"You don't have to take leave of anyone?"

The girl shrugs, picking up both the subtle hint, and her cloak from where it lies folded over the back of the desk chair. "You say goodbye to Tahl if you like. I'll meet you in the hangar. What are we taking – _Dawn_?"

" _Morningstar_. Program it for Tipoca City; I have questions for Lama Su."

"Roger that." She pauses at the door. "If your bag's ready, I'll run that down too, save some time."

When Qui-Gon reaches the _Morningstar_ 's berth in the upper hangar, everything is neatly stowed, the preflight preparations complete, the navcom set to Tipoca City, Kamino, and Nasriel ensconced in the pilot's seat, writing in her journal – Aurebesh charactery, Saalisan language. She stands up, effectively relinquishing the seat, but asks unexpectedly, "Can I take us out?"

"You may." Taking off from the top hangar of the Temple, in a ship as small as this, is not a complicated procedure, and Nasriel handles it with her usual cool precision. The jump to hyperspace once executed, there is no further piloting to be done during the eight-hour flight to Kamino, so Nasriel, taking her journal with her, shuts herself into one of the two narrow inset bunks in the cramped aft cabin.

* * *

It was a good idea, restarting this. Getting back to normal again. And it's funny – I wouldn't have thought of doing this a year ago, but there are things I need to say that I can't say to anyone else. And I know Qui-Gon doesn't read Saalisan.

He's old now. Somehow, I thought he could never be old, just as I could never imagine him young. I can easily imagine adolescence onto Obi-Wan, Bruck, even Xanatos and Feemor. But then, they're all full of stories about their own time as Padawans, to encourage us kids. Qui-Gon has secrets, not stories. He never talked about Master Dooku, even when we were hunting him – except to tell me not to refer to him as Master Dooku. "Just _Dooku_ will do, Padawan." 

It's almost as if Qui-Gon didn't exist before Xan was apprenticed, with all the care he takes to gloss over the past. While I don't fully understand the motivation, I see the effects clearly enough: he always seemed ageless – timeless – constant. Not anymore: I've been gone less than a year, and he's aged a decade in that time. Not just greyer – _older_. More tired. Just the same as he's always been, but more so somehow.

Of course, it could be that I'm just seeing things differently. I should ask Xan when we get home – Xan notices everything. Come to that, I suppose I've aged a decade in a year as well. I don't feel sixteen anymore – I feel older than Anakin. I've grown up, but I'm not sure if that's a good thing.

Meantime, of course, we're hunting again. Because manhunts are our speciality. Because we're the best in the Temple at finding what doesn't want to be found. I'm not sure if that's a good thing either – Xan says Qui-Gon's only had _this_ reputation the past six years, and he thinks it's because of me. That he, Xan, was too impatient to be any good at tracking, and Obi-Wan was – is – too much stuck on rules to do a good job without making a fuss. That Qui-Gon was always a good hunter on his own, but now he's got a Padawan who can help, rather than hinder. Apparently a compliment, this analysis unfolds to paint me as stubborn as my Master, and flexible on law and order. Or perhaps he meant something entirely different.

There's not anything to write about. Not if I'm really using this for its original purpose: taking daily notes from which to write up the mission report, weeks or months from now. But it's nice – the freedom to say anything, anything at all, even on paper.

 _Later:_ Reached Tipoca City last night. Is it always raining here? The Kams are much like us, and in another life, I might much like them. I think it is mostly their discretion. But discretion does not suit us at this time, so we resorted to subtlety. Qui-Gon requested an audience with Lama Su, to find out if Fett had discussed his plans with anybody. Meanwhile I'm to slip into the city on my own, find Fett's former quarters, and explore a little in the area. The number of things people leave behind, even when they think they've checked everything… it's wonderful.

 _Later:_ The worst news. Lama Su knew nothing, but Taun We – who spent more time with Fett and often spoke to his son Boba – said, when I asked her, that Fett had mentioned the best place for a bounty-hunter to find work, and that he planned to return there as soon as he was done at Kamino.

Tonight we are bound back to Laerdocia. 

Oddly for him, Qui-Gon is upset, and not hiding it from me. I think he's afraid I won't be able to handle it. I think I'm afraid I won't be able to handle it. Since we've been together again, sometimes it's hard to tell who started thinking about something first: him, or me. I am still bothered by the chain of events that started last time I was at Laerdocia, and though I meditate on it every day I am no closer to finding an answer: what have I _learned_?


	3. Chapter 3

At Laerdocia, in the same street, outside the same inn, after a long day asking answerless questions, Nasriel tugs at Qui-Gon's sleeve for attention.

"We – we're staying here?"

"We are."

"Can I have a room to myself again?" Three-fourths of a year have passed since they were last here, but the memories of that last time are as vivid as when newly-minted.

"Are you sure?"

She nods firmly. "I'm sure."

The innkeeper, in a strange coincidence, once again has only two rooms to let: one on the ground level, and one in the attic, three floors away. When asked if that is all right, Qui-Gon glances down at Nasriel, who grins shakily back.

"Déjà vu. It's... perfect."

Handing over the room keys, the innkeeper comments, "Got a mind of her own, your granddaughter, doesn't she?"

"Oh yes," the Master agrees, not correcting the misapprehension. "She does indeed."

* * *

Don't know if I'll get much sleep tonight. Same room, same... I _hope_ it isn't the same everything. Lightsaber under my pillow. Boots off – think I'll sleep in my clothes again. Lightsaber back in my hand – someone's coming up the stairs. Dear Force, I'm scared.

Only Qui-Gon come to make sure I was okay. Reminded me to keep the door locked, and said I knew where to find him if I wanted anything. I like that – wanted. Telling me it doesn't have to be anything real, and he won't mind if I bother him about nothing in particular.

Don't know if either of us will get much sleep tonight.

* * *

It is morning, a dirty-grey dawn is breaking over the city, when Qui-Gon is roused from an uneasy doze by a whisper-soft tap at the door, and rises to let Nasriel in.

"Did you stay up all night, Master?"

"Yes," he says, not bothering to conceal the truth. "Did you?"

"Most of it." Diffidently, Nasriel adds, "I'm not quite as much over all this as I thought."

"That's all right. Give it time." Qui-Gon checks his chrono. "At this hour we're unlikely to find out much of value. Shall we share meditation?"

Strengthening one's connection to the Force, centering and focusing the mind, either alone, or in communion with another, anchoring each other; meditation is one of the cornerstones of Jedi life. Stray thoughts are to be admitted, acknowledged, and dismissed. But meditating with Nasriel is... difficult, since her return. While Qui-Gon has had decades of practice at adroitly sidestepping any thoughts or memories he doesn't happen to want shared, Nasriel has not, and occasionally allows rather odd things to float to the surface. Today, though, something changes partway, something became in an indescribable manner _different_. The Master returns abruptly to the 'real' Galaxy, the realm of the senses, drawing his Padawan back with him.

"What?" Nasriel scowls, thrown off-balance.

"What was that?"

"It's – it's what you do. A lot. You're smoother about it than I am. I... recognized a memory, but I didn't want it, so I sent it away again."

The idea makes him pause. "You notice when I do that? What did you think – when you first noticed?"

"That there's stuff you don't want me to know about. Your history is your business. It's fine." Changing the subject, awkwardly, not wanting to discuss the keeping of secrets, she adds, "Is it late enough yet to keep hunting?"

The best way to find a specific bounty hunter in a place like Laerdocia is to locate a generic, any-old bounty hunter, and convince him – or her – to talk connections until they mention the name one wants. And, of course, the wheels of commerce have to be kept well-greased. By mid-afternoon, a small-timer becomes sufficiently curious to reveal that the infamous Fett has gotten wind of a wealthy potential client at Malastare, and left Laerdocia that morning.

"... and if he can afford to run a ship like that I tell you I don't know why he bothers to work –"

"Thank you," Qui-Gon interrupts politely. "You've been most helpful."

Leaving the bounty hunter to grumble in peace, wandering away down the street, Nasriel murmurs, "Never underestimate greed as a motivating power for any sentient."

"...Keep your focus in the present moment where it belongs; faced with two mutually exclusive options, choose patience; and above all –" he pauses to let her join in on the end. "Do _not_ get yourself killed."

Nasriel laughs. "How long have you been saying that?"

"Since Xanatos. Feemor didn't need it." The long list of advice whose tail end they have just finished saying is an old one, true, but he is not being quite transparent with her: it was not originally his own. Dooku repeated it for over a decade, and Qui-Gon did not gather the courage to ignore the past and repeat it himself _until_ Xanatos was apprenticed.

Ascending from Laerdocia, dodging the ill-regulated traffic, Qui-Gon focuses on the controls, deliberately not catching at the loose end of Nasriel's train of puzzled thought. At last, the Padawan ventures to speak.

"Master?"

"Don't interrupt when I'm concentrating."

Nasriel withdraws slightly, folding her legs up with her heels on the chair, hugging her knees, out of the way but still present. Soon, though, the _Morningstar_ has slid gracefully into hyperspace, and Qui-Gon can afford his Padawan his full attention.

"What is it, Nasriel?"

"That innkeeper at Laerdocia. You let him think I was your granddaughter."

"Yes, I did."

After a moment's pause, Nasriel asks, a nervous whisper, " _Am_ I your –"

"So that's what was bothering you. No, you aren't." He wonders, fleetingly, how _long_ that has been bothering her. A moment? A year? A decade? Wonders what it is like, not knowing for certain who one's own family is. Wonders _what_ – besides the innkeeper's mistimed observation – could have given Nasriel that idea in the first place.

The Padawan nods. "Okay. That's – that's good."

* * *

It's odd. I love Qui-Gon so much, but I was so relieved to have it confirmed that I'm not related to him. If I were... it would reduce us both. Because he wouldn't be _Qui-Gon_ anymore, he'd just be ordinary, an ordinary man who had children and abandoned them and kept it a secret. Whatever he's hiding from me... it's nobler than that, I know it is. And me: if I was Qui-Gon's granddaughter, I'd be someone's dirty little secret, and he wouldn't have chosen me for _me,_ just for the sake of keeping the secret. But I'm not. And everything's going to be fine.

We're bound for the Malastare Quadropolis because word is Fett has a client there. Trouble is, I know someone else at the Quad – Mi Amarok. And I know Qui-Gon knew her when he was a Padawan – so chances are she'll have a fair idea what it is he's not telling me. I don't want to find out from her – but I need to find out somehow, and if Qui-Gon's this set on keeping secrets…


	4. Chapter 4

The Black City of the Malastare Quadropolis is known throughout the Galaxy for its total lack of law-enforcement and resulting concentration of fugitives, thieves, bounty-hunters and their employers and quarry, and in general the lowest outcasts of the Republic. In the center of the city is a haven, a house bought and funded by Djinn Altis, a mildly heretical ex-Jedi, and run by Mi Amarok, one of Altis' more spitfire protégés. Sunrise House is the only safe place in the city – and a good place to go for accurate information.

Striding through the progressively narrower and darker streets toward the center of the Black City, Qui-Gon glances back from time to time, checking that Nasriel is still following. Two paces behind and one to the left, like any good Padawan, she scurries along rapidly and contentedly enough, having learned many years before how to keep up to her Master without running... much. Both Jedi have deliberately made themselves inconspicuous, covering their distinctive garb. Nasriel has a coat, made by Tahl out of a thick beige blanket and adorned with a single row of highly polished brass toggle fastenings, and she has plaited her Padawan braid in with the rest of her heavy black hair, in a single thick line down her back. Qui-Gon wears the same shabby grey duster he has used for years, the deeper grey pattern woven into its edge faded now, but still visible enough to be obviously _not Jedi_.

Two streets from their destination, Qui-Gon checks back once more to find Nasriel... not there. She is a block away, sitting calmly in the filthy roadway, talking to a small dark-haired boy who is hiding behind a discarded crate.

"... Well, _my_ father's _dead_ ," the Jedi is saying, with remarkable good cheer considering the subject matter. "So I guess you'll be okay." When she notices Qui-Gon standing at the street corner, she beckons to him, smiling, a little too bright, a little too casual, the Force fizzing through her in tense elation. When she next speaks, it is to Qui-Gon, using a Saalisan form of address whose meaning they both know perfectly well, and whose use he forbade shortly after she was assigned as his Padawan.

"Chenray, this is Boba. He's lost his father, and I said we could help find him." Turning back to the boy, she goes on, "Boba, this is..." she laughs shortly, humorlessly. "...This is my grandfather. He knows a lady here in the Black City who can help us find your dad. Right, _chenray_?" _Play along_ , the hard glitter of Nasriel's golden eyes warns.

"That's right."

Emerging warily from his hiding place and slipping his grimy fingers into Nasriel's outstretched hand, Boba squints suspiciously up at Qui-Gon, and demands of Nasriel, "So, is it your mum or your dad that isn't blue?"

"My mom was Human," Nasriel replies truthfully, with only a tiny emphasis on the verb.

The boy nods, wise beyond his years, understanding, without being told, what Nasriel is saying – and what she isn't – with the strange precocious maturity common to career runaways, slaves... and Padawans of the Jedi Order.

Nasriel and Boba scurry together down the street to Sunrise House. Boba is the same temporal age as the first clone troopers, making him eleven now, but he is tall for his age: barely shorter than Nasriel. Because the boy is, after all, an exact genetic replica of Jango Fett, Qui-Gon briefly considers the possibility of simply returning _him_ to Kamino – but that would be wrong: Boba is a free agent. Jango has been paid for the use of his hardy Mandalorian DNA; he owes the Kaminoans what they have paid for; the Jedi, it seems, are acting as debt collectors, albeit on a high level of secrecy and a still higher plane of metaphysics. It is a very strange war.

He reaches the kitchen door of Sunrise House bare minutes after the children, and finds them already perched at the table, consuming oatmeal cookies and blue milk. Or at least Boba is, munching stolidly, black brows drawn together in a scowl of concentration. Nasriel, who doesn't eat much at the best of times, is talking softly and rapidly to Mi Amarok, gesticulating with a slightly-nibbled cookie by way of punctuation.

As the Jedi Master enters, Mi is saying coolly, "I've always found the best way of getting information from Qui-Gon is to _ask him_." Nodding to acknowledge his presence, she orders his Padawan, "Now, run along and play. Take your new friend with you." When Padawan and perfect clone have each snatched an extra cookie and scarpered, Mi smiles gently. She is a Balosar by species, and a Jedi of the Altistian school by fortune, and Qui-Gon has known her since before Xanatos was brought to the Temple - since before the smile lines etched in her face became permanent fixtures, before her fiery red hair bleached to grey. Her equally fiery temper has been tempered by time, but she is still not someone to argue with unless one is very sure of one's ground.

"Hello, Qui-Gon."

"Hello, Mi."

"So. What strange and terrible wind blows you to my door?"

The mission, like so much of life now, is classified to the hilt. While there is a certain amount that can be told to anyone, and a certain amount more that can be told to Mi in the course of asking her for help, neither amount amounts to much. Besides, Qui-Gon is bone-weary of talk about the war, and says so.

"Can we pretend I'm one of your endless succession of strays, and just make polite small-talk?"

"Of _course_ we can." Although it seems unlikely that Mi would instantly know exactly how one of her strays takes his tea, and that he prefers almond cookies to oatmeal, the pretense progresses smoothly through the weather, the special effects in a recent holomovie, and the ion storms out at Alderaan, before Mi attempts broaching _current events_.

"I understand you are involved in the war, Master Jinn," she says. "So tell me – how goes the war?"

"That is _not_ polite small-talk," Qui-Gon growls, regarding her over the rim of his teacup.

"No," Mi says thoughtfully. "No, I suppose it isn't. Well, tell me about your family, then. You do have a family, don't you?" she adds belatedly, catching up the pretense again and giving him the right of every wanderer: to be unknown, to choose whether or not to reveal the least detail.

"Three boys and a girl," he assures her. "All of them with completely different opinions on every subject under the stars."

"You must be so proud," Mi says, clearly relishing this little game of double meanings. "Of them," she clarifies before he can get a suitable Jedi rejection of any such emotion in edgeways. The subtle compliment, aimed as it is at another than himself, softens denial into assent.

"I am very, very proud of all four of them," Qui-Gon says firmly. "And how is your son, Mrs. Amarok?"

"More difficult even than usual. Staying with Master Altis – it's months since I've heard from him. But I want to talk about yours. They're more interesting."

* * *

It's not all that late, but Boba's already tired of people and we've slipped off to hide in one of the dormer windows in the attic. The kid's fallen asleep, and I'm free to write.

Mi wouldn't tell me anything. She's right, of course: the best way of getting Qui-Gon to tell me something would be to ask him. And ordinarily he'll answer anything, however strange. But I've tried asking subtly – and he's the king of subtle, you can't tell me he didn't know exactly what I wanted – so I have to assume he won't tell me what he's hiding, and go on to not-best ways of finding out.

And I think we ought to be told just the _substance_ of what's going on – maybe not Bi-An or Feemor, but Xan and I are owed some information. We've both been 'family interest' from the age of three, there's _nothing_ the others don't know about us. Obi-Wan has a solid twelve years that nobody will ever know about unless he tells them – not to mention a rumored six months AWOL at Melida-Daan. Feemor has twenty years.

I love Qui-Gon. I really do. He's more of a father to me than a real father could be. But I realized – yesterday morning at Laerdocia – that I don't know him at all. Personality, sure. How he'll react to a given situation. How he thinks. How he _fights_ , that's important, and I know _that_. But the faintest little glimmer of history? Any sort of _why_? No. I'm in the dark there, and he knows it, and he's happy to leave me there.

As I sit here, writing by moonlight, Boba Fett's sleepy head heavy in my lap, a wicked thought occurs to me. Why shouldn't I keep secrets of my own? Qui-Gon is a great believer in teaching by example. Well, he's taught me it's perfectly acceptable for Jedi to have secrets from the people closest to them. The only trouble with that idea is, I don't want to keep secrets from Qui-Gon.


	5. Chapter 5

In the morning, it is Mi who slips early up to the attic, wakes the children from their comfortable tangle on the floor, and sees to it that they are downstairs, clean and fed, before it is time to continue with the mission. Qui-Gon knows that Mi has rescued many a hapless young ward, slave, and apprentice from a harsh master's fury by her discreet organizing, her ensuring that the youngsters are ready to depart when their elders are. It bothers him somewhat that, although she is probably not thinking of it in those terms, Mi performs this kindness for Nasriel and Boba without a second thought. But there is no time to be bothered today – they still have to find Jango Fett, and more important, find a convincing reason for the bounty-hunter to return to Kamino. So the first question of the morning is to Boba: _Do you know your father's comm callsign?_

The boy scowls. "He doesn't _keep_ one on him, only the one on the ship. I can call that from my comm, but he's not there."

With that, there is nothing for it but to split up and search the old-fashioned way: by walking the streets and asking questions. Boba stays with Qui-Gon, and Nasriel sets off alone in another direction. In the Black City, it seems, she is not concerned about being separated from her Master, or about the possibility of something going badly wrong. In the Temple, it is another matter entirely. This is odd, given the relative security of the two communities, but Qui-Gon does not have time to consider the matter at the moment.

For most of the morning, Qui-Gon and Boba wander the Black City. Boba thinks he has been here before, perhaps last time Jango went off without telling anybody, six years ago. That time, the bounty-hunter returned of his own accord. This time, it has already been a year, and far from returning, Fett seems to be _running_. Of course, there is always the possibility that Boba's memories of the city are not his own at all, but his father's. Stranger things have been known, and cloning is still too new a field to say definitely that it is not so.

At noon, just as the sun finally reaches an angle to stab between the high walls of the city and illumine the near-perpetual twilight of the streets, Nasriel calls, with a very simple message: _come to the western end of Green Fountain Street as soon as possible._ There are no fountains, green or otherwise, anywhere in the Black City, and the narrow alley in question was named for a now long-demolished cantina, but Qui-Gon still knows the place his Padawan means. When he reaches the specified rendezvous, he finds Nasriel at the other end of the street, standing waiting for him, with Jango Fett half a pace behind her. Another instant is enough to take in that the bounty-hunter's helmet lies on the ground with the Padawan's lightsaber, and that Fett has one hand on his blaster, the other on Nasriel's shoulder.

"All right," the Mandalorian calls, when they are still twenty meters apart. "That's far enough, stop there."

"We've been mandated to return you to Kamino," Qui-Gon informs him.

"I know that," comes the sharp retort. "Question is, Master Jedi, how we arrange things. You want me to go back, I guess right now. I don't want to go until I've finished my business here – another week or so."

"And unless we travel together, we have no guarantee of each other's actions." The perennial problem in this untrusting Galaxy.

"I'd say we had a pretty good guarantee." Fett disagrees. "You've got my kid; I've got yours. We can swap back at Tipoca City."

"You're serious?"

"Rarely more so." The sunlight, angling away again across the rooftops, shines briefly into the man's dark eyes, and he blinks. For some reason, the reflex is encouraging: Fett is only a man after all, capable of looking away at the wrong moment, capable of making mistakes. "Look. You want me back at Kamino, I want to get on with what I'm doing. You want your kid, I want mine. Let's take the second as a guarantee of the first. You get your apprentice back when I've finished my job unmolested. I get mine back when I'm back at Kamino and the cloners have got the tissue samples they want."

"Agreed." Qui-Gon knows Nasriel is not enthusiastic about the idea – come to that, neither is he – but what other choice is there? This is far closer than anyone else has come to convincing Fett to return, and much as he revolts at the whole obscene mess of the war… right now, the Republic does need the clones. Xanatos and Obi-Wan fight on the front lines: put it like that, and the success of the war becomes a family matter, a personal concern.

"The girl's weapons go with you, the boy's with me," Fett proposes. "Don't want the kids getting ideas."

Nasriel goes first, calculating the distance between them and placing her lightsaber on the ground halfway.

"And your comm," the bounty-hunter adds.

At this, Qui-Gon finds cause to object. "Boba can contact you. Nasriel has to be able to contact me."

"Comms on Slave One."

"Not good enough."

"Well, I'm not having her calling some Jedi to track me, am I?"

Although this appears to be an impasse, after a moment's thought, Qui-Gon has an idea, and, ignoring Fett's scowl, strides to the halfway point and beckons to Nasriel to join him. She glances nervously at Fett, but he nods curtly, granting permission, and she comes.

For Nasriel to keep her own comlink after this exchange is impractical – but Qui-Gon has a spare, a rather special one that nobody else knows about… until now, when he hands it to Nasriel, wrapping her fingers around the miniature device as if it's the most precious thing in the Galaxy. All things are relative: perhaps it is.

"If you can call me from Fett's ship, that's fine. If you can't, and you're in trouble, press the button on the comm, and it will connect straight to Dooku in a few seconds. While I don't know what he will do, I know that he can reach you anywhere in the Galaxy, far faster than I can, and that, for Yoda's sake if for nothing else, he won't hurt you."

Nasriel tucks the comlink away, with a peculiar adult gravity he has not previously noticed in her. He doesn't want this moment to end, doesn't want her to be plucked out of his reach again. Although they have been separated many times before, and it has only once ended in disaster, this time is different: this time comes close on the heels of a brutal reminder about the fragility of _normal_.

On an impulse, just as Nasriel is turning away, Qui-Gon puts out one hand to stay her. The Padawan's face is a study in confusion as she halts, looking back at him, black brows knotted together by cords of bemusement, before perplexity dissolves abruptly into frank apprehension.

"Qui-Gon, I'm scared." She is beyond scared: she is _this close_ to hyperventilating. They should not be here; they should not have gone back on the mission lists this soon. For all their Jedi resilience, Padawans are still only children. Children get frightened, and rarely without reason.

"I know." But there is no choice now. "Deep breath. Abide in the Force and have hope."

The Padawan doesn't want the moment to end either, and lingers. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course." As it has always been between them: no topic is off limits, and no question will remain unanswered, even if the answer is only _I can't tell you that yet_.

"And you promise to answer?" Perhaps not exactly as it has always been.

Qui-Gon meets this new suspicion with a timeworn implied assurance. His reply, "I don't promise you'll like the answer," is in essence a guarantee of honesty, if only because the truth is so very rarely a welcome answer to a question.

Nasriel reaches up and tugs gently at the leather cord that has for years hung unobtrusively around Qui-Gon's neck, just visible above his collar.

"What's on this?" On _this_ , tucked safely inside the Master's tunic, is a small, smooth disc of glassy black stone, with a story of its own, but Nasriel has only ever seen the cord by which it hangs.

"I'll tell you later, Padawan. When we have more time."

Although her eyes narrow in suspicion that her Master is _avoiding the question_ , Nasriel accepts the promise of a forthcoming explanation, and returns to Fett without further demur. The two Mandalorians take a few minutes at the centerpoint to say goodbye, and to let Boba divest himself of two knives and a blaster. At the last moment, the boy flings his arms around his father's waist and whispers something in Mando'a. Fett hugs his son briefly, then ruffles the boy's black hair and pushes him gently away. Qui-Gon wishes he'd thought to hug Nasriel, who is now ostentatiously _looking in the other direction._ Too late now.

When they part at last, leaving Green Fountain Street in opposite directions, Nasriel saunters away without a backward glance. Qui-Gon can sense she is still fearful of what lies ahead, but she is acting well, Force aura flamboyantly cloaked in a shimmering bravado to rival Xanatos' best dissemblance.

Boba Fett falls into step beside Qui-Gon, silent and sullen, and they return to Sunrise House. There is no hurry to leave the Black City; plenty of time before they have to be at Kamino to meet the elder Fett's bargain.


	6. Chapter 6

With at least a week to kill before he can continue with the Fett mission, Qui-Gon calls Tahl at the Temple to ask if there is anything else needing to be done in the area for a few days. The lady locates, in the depths of the mission-list, a trade dispute out of Kalinda, which has of late become violent, and in which the Jedi have been requested by Chancellor Palpatine to mediate between the premier of the planet and the aggrieved guilds. It seems a straightforward assignment, particularly for one of Qui-Gon's experience.

And indeed, "Since it's Senate-sanctioned, Mace was going to send one of the younger Knights, but you're in the area; you may as well take it. Oh, while you're on the line, can I have a word with Nasriel?"

"I'm calling from Sunrise House," Qui-Gon explains. "Nasriel went into town this morning and she's not back yet." This is not strictly untrue.

"Will she be if I call back in an hour?"

"No."

"What if I call back at this time tomorrow?"

The Master considers, for a few seconds, the best way to put this – but by then it is too late and Tahl has guessed the truth.

"Own up, Qui. You've lost her again, haven't you?"

"…No..."

"You mean you really _have_?" This is the problem with voice-only calls to Tahl: decades of blindness have taught her all there is to know about nuances of tone. Not that she couldn't always read him like a book.

"The situation is under control."

"It's okay, I believe you. Be safe. Call me if there's anything I can do to help. And may the Force be with you."

Too nice. Tahl is never this nice. Quick-witted and acerbic, yes. Loyal, generous to a fault, and caring, certainly. _Nice_ , never.

"And with you," he returns the Jedi benediction. There is silence on the line for several seconds, until Qui-Gon thinks Tahl must have left, but then she speaks again, crisp and precise as ever, if a touch more anxious than usual. He can read her tone as well, and quite as accurately, though it seems best not to mention that.

"Xanatos said to tell you he senses trouble, and to watch out."

"Xanatos _always_ senses trouble. Tell me he's not sensing trouble, then I'll worry." But Xanatos has more often been right than wrong with his premonitions, so Qui-Gon decides to be on the safe side. "Trouble right now, or…"

"Brewing. It wasn't at all clear, but he said it's about an old friend, and it won't be long in coming."

This Jedi family is one oddly gifted with premonition: for a Master to train more than one Padawan burdened with the talent of dreaming truths is rare indeed. _Three_ Padawans of the same Master is unheard-of, but the unheard-of, it seems, is happening. Feemor has many times predicted the unpredictable. Xanatos just _knows_ , with a vague but accurate intuition, what is going to happen next. Obi-Wan's bizarre presentiments are rarely taken seriously: he suffered too many nightmares in childhood to reliably evaluate a dream, though his visions as an adult are sometimes exact enough for decisive action. Nasriel, on the other hand, if her dreams ever come to anything, does not mention the fact. The thought of the absent Padawan catapults Qui-Gon back to reality, where he realizes Tahl is still talking.

"…find Nasriel, Qui. Find her soon. And take care of yourself." She cuts the link before he can ask her to clarify: did she just tell him to be careful, three times in the course of one conversation, which is twice more than she usually says it in a year?

Putting away the comlink, he instructs Boba to be ready to leave within the hour. Unlike Nasriel, the boy does not react to this news with a barrage of questions, or by trying to read the mission briefing over Qui-Gon's shoulder. Boba merely shrugs and carries on with what he was doing: playing cards with one of the Sunrise House boys.

"Did you hear me, Boba?"

"Yeah." At least the child is not afraid of him; that would truly be difficult to deal with.

There is still some time before they _have_ to leave: Qui-Gon returns to scanning the mission briefing. It seems the premier of Kalinda has enacted laws restricting the prices of locally-produced goods sold on-world. Naturally, the trade guilds are unimpressed. To make matters worse, the guild members the premier consulted in drafting the laws have been branded as traitors by their fellows, and, for the most part, hanged by those same fellows. No due process. No justice. Only two are reported to have escaped. This of course led to retribution by the government forces… in short, there is a significant mess to clear up, and Boba is unlikely to be of any help.

Qui-Gon removes the younger Fett from his game – the boy is reluctant, having won twenty credits in half an hour and showing every promise of winning more, but it takes no more stringent measure than a slight, wordless frown to unnerve Boba completely and bring him scurrying after the Jedi Master.

At Kalinda, the premier and the guild bosses have arranged for someone to meet the _Morningstar_ at the spaceport; however, landing to find the port deserted, Qui-Gon takes advantage of the opportunity to place a call to Slave One. There is no answer, so he leaves a message on the comlink data chip.

"Nasriel, if you get a chance, call Tahl and let her know you're all right. Boba and I are at Kalinda settling a quarrel, but we'll meet you at Kamino in a week or so. May the Force be with you." There is no time to say more, as the premier's men have appeared at the _Morningstar_ 's boarding ramp, and Boba is _this close_ to saying something unpardonable to them. Besides, there is nothing more to be said that he would not hesitate to say over an unsecured link.

Determining the exact root of a diplomatic crisis takes a long time, usually involves harsh words on all sides, and is, above all, mind-numbingly _tedious_. And finding a resolution to the crisis is all of the above, raised to the nth power. Under normal circumstances, a Jedi sent to resolve a dispute has a Padawan to whom to delegate at least some of the paper-scavenging and questioning. Under abnormal circumstances, with his Padawan halfway to who-knows-where and Boba to look after besides, Qui-Gon is grimly prepared to rediscover exactly how disagreeable working solo on the diplomatic circuit can be. He fully expects this to take at least the 'week or so' Fett said to wait before going on to Kamino.

Things go suspiciously smoothly. Boba stays out of the way, quiet and not causing trouble. The premier and the guild bosses seem anxious not to provoke the Jedi Master to call the wrath of the Chancellor down on them, and are as cooperative as avowed mortal enemies can be. Well within the time limit, the parties reach a settlement, and Qui-Gon and Boba are free to return to Kamino.

When they land at Tipoca City, ten days to the hour after parting from Jango and Nasriel at Malastare, it is raining. It seems never to be not-raining at Kamino, but despite the torrential downpour, Fett waits on the landing platform with Taun We. He is smiling.

Boba yells " _Dad!_ " and is off _Morningstar_ , hitting the splash-wet duracrete running, the moment the hatch opens, even before the boarding ramp is lowered. Qui-Gon can see immediately what is wrong with this picture, and even as the bounty-hunter swings his son up into a stiff armored hug, the Jedi notices that Nasriel is neither standing on the landing platform, nor waiting more sensibly in the dry corridor behind the transparisteel doors onto the platform.

Approaching the little group by the doors, he asks, quietly, just audible over the rain, "You have not been bothered by any Jedi – I've kept my side of the bargain. Where's Nasriel?"

The elder Fett lets go of the younger for just long enough to shrug, palms raised. "I don't know."


	7. Chapter 7

I'm not scared, I'm not… it's odd, but I really am not scared. I'm on a ship with one of the most feared bounty-hunters in the Republic, and I have no way of knowing what he's going to do next, and no way of contacting my Master if things go badly wrong – but I am not scared. Partly, because Jango has a reputation as an honorable man who never hurts anyone he doesn't have to. Partly, because his son's fate rides on his own behavior toward me. Or he thinks it does, which comes to the same thing. I know Boba is as safe as any child anywhere, regardless of what happens to me.

We're bound for Alderaan. Jango didn't tell me that, but I've made this exact jump before, with Obi-Wan, and I remember the coordinates. Of course, I don't know _why_ we're going to Alderaan – time for some snooping.

 _Later_ : Okay. There's a thermic detonator in the hold. About one-eighth cubic meter in size, with a time-lapse switch, not armed yet. There's a plan of a theater in the shipboard computer, uploaded two days ago. But I don't know where this particular building is: I've only been to Alderaan once, and it certainly wasn't to go to the theater.

When I asked Jango why we're going there, he was evasive, and told me he was a free agent, hired by another free agent, to cause a little damage, for reasons he didn't understand and wasn't paid to. Now I'm just trying to decide whether I have enough reason to interfere – if he's going to kill someone, I should, but if that detonator is only meant for a building, I _shouldn't_... I wish I could ask Qui-Gon what to do.

Right now, my life depends on the Jedi Order not getting in Jango's way. But there's nothing stopping _me_ from acting if I think it's warranted. I'll probably die if it comes to that, but I just realized, that's what freedom means: freedom to sacrifice your life willingly in a good cause, instead of having it taken off you without your consent. The Force gives us life so we can give our lives to others. Rather depressing thought, really.

The comlink is heavy in my pocket. I wonder if this counts as trouble. But I haven't tried to get through to Qui-Gon yet, and he said _if_ there was trouble, and _if_ I couldn't contact him, I should call Master Dooku.

And now, I'm scared.

 _Later_ : I'm making mission notes, because this is getting complicated and I don't want to forget anything. Jango said he wanted me to do something for him. Because right now my best chance of getting back to Qui-Gon is for Jango to finish his contract quickly, I said I'd help. He asked me to find when the Aeschylus Theater at Alderaan had scheduled performances over the next week, so he could know when the theater was less likely to have anyone in it. When I gave him the times, he went down to the hold for about half an hour.

After he came back to the cockpit, I made some excuse and went down myself. I found the timer on the detonator had been set to a time when there would be an operatic performance partway into its second act – two days from now. We'll be at Alderaan in an hour, and I don't know how to defuse this model detonator in that time. I don't know where Qui-Gon is; Jango says there are no calls logged to the ship. That does it; I'm contacting Dooku.

 _Later_ : So I called. I still remember every word of that conversation. I went back to the hold, because Jango was busy navigating an asteroid field just spinwards of the planet, and wouldn't be down to look for me for a while. Dooku answered the call after only one ring – I don't know if that's good or not.

"Qui-Gon?" he said.

"No," I replied. "It's me, Nasriel. It's a long story, but –" a terrible thought occurred to me. "Have you contracted a hit out at Alderaan?"

"No. Nobody at Alderaan is in my way. Why?"

"Because there's one going down. I'm on Slave One right now and I don't have time to tamper with the detonator before we get there, and I can't call the Temple to interfere because he'll kill me –"

"Are you, personally and right now, in danger?" Dooku cut in. When I didn't answer right away, he said firmly, "I'm sending someone to fetch you. Leave this channel open." I slowly realized that I have just called the leader of the Separatists to stop a mercenary who usually works for the Republic. Why the blue Wild Space would I be _worried?_

 _Later_ : Master Dooku is very quiet. Thinking, I guess.

Slave One was met at the edge of Alderaanian territory by a light shuttle: three droidekas and a Togruta woman a few years older than me. The droidekas held Jango in the companionway, away from any controls, while the Separatist woman asked me to show her where the detonator was and to explain how the timer was set. She was very friendly to me, but couldn't work out how to defuse the detonator, so she settled for resetting the timer to a time when the theater really would be empty, and shattered the switches so it couldn't be altered again. She talked the whole time, but I only remember some of what she said.

"You must be more important than you look, kid. All gods know I couldn't get Lord Tyranus to just snap his fingers and send a squad to get me out of enemy territory. Come on, you come with me, and we'll leave Fett to carry on with his – modified – Republic mission. Have to let him finish, so his boss doesn't try recontracting the hit." She winked. "Though why the Republicans want a theater wrecked I don't know and don't care."

The Togruta made it quite clear to Jango that she had come for me, didn't know why I was with him at all except that I wasn't supposed to be, and said he could go on his merry way with no consequences – _this once_! She hustled me aboard the Sep ship, leaving Jango audibly nervous about the possibility of Qui-Gon killing him when he got to Kamino, but relieved not to have been killed already, and to be allowed to finish his contract. The Separatist agent took me to Korriban – don't want to go there again – to meet up with Master Dooku.

And now I'm on his ship, making for Nar Haaska on the edge of Hutt Space: nobody goes there, so it's a quiet place to meet. Master Dooku said he'll call Qui-Gon when we get there, rather than take me into Republic territory himself. He said there are things he needs to talk to me about, and it's a comfortably long trip to do that on, and things he needs to talk to Qui-Gon about, and the two categories have very little overlap.

I don't know, really, what's going on anymore, so I've just been meditating quietly. Something's wrong with this ship, meditating is like trying to swim through ground-nut butter. I suppose Dooku being all but Sith has something to do with it. Funny, I can't think of him as being absolutely _evil_ , even after last time we met, when he kept me locked up for weeks on end, as a way of getting Qui-Gon to come and find him.

I can't wait to see my Master again. A single week seems a long time after all that's happened.


	8. Chapter 8

Qui-Gon glares at Fett, and is about to ask why, exactly, Nasriel's location is such a mystery, when his comlink rings shrilly, audible even over the dinning of the rain. It is over a year since he last spoke to Dooku, and it was ten years before that, but the acidic bite of the former Jedi's suave tones over the link still comes as a mild shock.

"Would you care to explain why your Padawan was in possession of a comlink I specifically asked you to maintain as a secret? No, I know how long that would take, and she's given me a fair idea already."

Even from however many parsecs away, even sixty years after it all began, forty-two years after everything went _more_ wrong, thirty-seven years after he finally ripped himself away and lost part of his soul in the process – why, after all this, does Dooku's very voice still have the power to turn his guts to ice? The answer comes almost before he has finished asking the question: _Nasriel is with Dooku. You have never told her what happened, and he certainly will_. It is rather like one of the two-sentence horror stories the Padawans tell each other, which become more terrifying the longer they are reflected on.

"Don't tell Nasriel anything until I get there. And where is _there_ , anyway?" Qui-Gon adds hastily, an attempt to make his former Master forget his ill-considered injunction. Dooku is twisted enough that he will only take _more_ delight, now he knows of Qui-Gon's concerns, in laying out the past before Nasriel's unwary imagination.

And, indeed: "If you leave your Padawan lying around, and _especially_ if you lie to her, you may expect me to tell her anything I care to."

"Dooku –"

"We'll be at Nar Haaska in… two days. That's enough time for you to get there from Kamino. You're in _Morningstar_? I'll tell them to let you through the lines. And I'll see you soon."

"Can I talk to Nasriel? Please."

"No… I don't think so. But you could give me something I can tell her to convince her I really have contacted you."

"Tell her I said _hello, minx_." Tahl has been objecting to that nickname for years – he will have to remember to tell her it does have its uses.

"I shall." Dooku sounds amused, but before Qui-Gon can say anything else, the link is cut.

Fett is staring at him, eyes narrowed in calculation. "The kid's not in trouble, is she?" he asks, openly hoping for a negative answer.

"More than you know."

For the first time, the bounty-hunter looks troubled. "I'm sorry, Master Jinn. She acted like she knew those Seps, so I figured it couldn't be too bad – and with three droidekas on board, I wouldn't have survived making any objections." He raises one hand, effectively precluding Qui-Gon's reply. "I know: I wasn't bothered by any Jedi, but I didn't bring your kid back. We made a deal, and I reneged on it. I don't do that. Is there anything I can do to help, to make it up to you?"

"Stay here, do what you came back for, and _don't_ make me come after you again."

Turning back across the platform, whose surface shimmers with dancing raindrops, Qui-Gon pretends to ignore Fett's parting shout.

"I was going to do that anyway, so I still owe you one!" Well. Perhaps someday an honor-debt from one of the greatest bounty-hunters in the Republic will prove an asset.

Nar Haaska, in the verge of Hutt Space, lies on the border between the hostile Separatist territory and the officially neutral but still unfriendly crime syndicate's turf. There are three possible routes, only one of which does not involve a hyperspace lane known to be mined. Straight through the middle of enemy holdings it is, then, relying on the very shaky and uncertain ground that is Dooku's offhand promise of safe-conduct.

Qui-Gon is struck by the recklessness of what he is embarking on: this is almost worthy of Anakin's recent record. Almost worthy of his own record, from the days when the Order's most infamous maverick didn't have a second to spare for considerations of respectability, reputation, setting a good example for the younger generation, or indeed anything other than being constantly on the move and usually in some degree of danger.

Xanatos was the one most affected by this nomadic lifestyle, becoming cool and distant and unlike the other Padawans. He had none of Feemor's relaxed, self-possessed approach to life, and confided in nobody, not even his Master or Tahl.

Obi-Wan was older when he first met Qui-Gon: a determined boy with a firebrand spirit and a searingly strong, terror-laden connection to the Unifying Force, which he had then yet to learn even to bear, let alone control. Not easily distracted from anything to which he has set himself, Obi-Wan suspects nothing, to this very day.

Nasriel, with her innate sincerity and passion for truth, will not hesitate to tell him.

Nar Haaska is dubiously famous as the only world even the Hutts didn't want. Coming out of hyperspace nearby, watching the arc of the golden planet slowly fill the scope of the viewport, Qui-Gon is conscious of a _fear_ , seeded by a grain of perfectly reasonable apprehension and nurtured by two days of sleepless solitude, that everything he has worked for all his life is on the brink of crumbling to dust.

He is almost – but not quite – surprised that Dooku has kept his promise of unimpeded passage, and almost – but not quite – reassured by this.

Dooku's distinctive ship is landed in the middle of a flat, open place on the dark side of the planet. How appropriate. Edges crisply delineated in the strong white glare of its floodlamps, the ship wallows in the black pool of its own shadow. At one extreme of the light's sphere of influence, the sea licks delicately at the red-rock rim of the land, and at the other, a sheer cliff chops off the plateau.

Setting _Morningstar_ down outside the border of the light, he studies the area. A ghost of Dooku's familiar character lingers, like the bitter scent of a fire, but he has not been here for at least a day. Someone else's presence is more immediately obvious, though – someone whose personality is strong enough, dark enough, that, crossing the threshold between _Morningstar_ and night, Qui-Gon has to focus on _not_ glancing nervously around him. There is nobody here. Rough estimates of distance and time are indelibly written into every aura: Dooku was here, but not recently, and the other person is not in this hemisphere of Nar Haaska, and never has been. Nasriel is not old enough for her Force signature to have much permanence, and so there is no sign of her ever having set foot on this bleak, barren world.

A surly-natured processing unit built into Dooku's ship grudgingly informs him that yes, Dooku and 'the girl', on landing here three days ago, immediately left 'to visit with somebody' elsewhere on the world. It is pessimistic and uncertain regarding the projected time of their return, so Qui-Gon retreats to the _Morningstar_ to wait. A grey dawn is breaking coldly over the sea when the sighing of the waves is drowned by the coarse growl of a swoop-bike engine.

Helping Nasriel down from the back of the bike, Dooku glances across to greet Qui-Gon.

"You took a shortcut," the Separatist leader remarks pleasantly. "We had counted on at least another day. So sorry to keep you waiting."

The morning is cold, with an icy gale blowing in off the ocean, but Dooku ignores that. This whole meeting is _wrong_ somehow, a strange rendezvous on the edge of a continent, on the edge of Hutt Space… on the edge of a war, though that seems to have been suspended. Even the time seems warped, uneven, and Qui-Gon is not sure how long elapses between his former Master's salutation and his own reply.

"I wasn't waiting long." True; but the time he has spent waiting for Nasriel to look away from the horizon is interminable. She stands very still, gazing out to sea, with only the motion of her long hair on the wind betraying that she has not suddenly turned to stone. It blows about loosely, tangled, her usual heavy plait unraveled. A moment later, he realizes what the matter is: the glitter is gone, the shimmering, changeable, vivid Nasriel he knows so well silent.

He has to ask. "Are you all right, minx? You're not hurt?"

"If I were... does it really make a blind bit of difference to what happens next?" Still staring at the crashing foam-capped waves.

"Of course it does."

"I'm fine," Nasriel replies, sounding as if this is the logical conclusion to a chain of reasoning, something resulting from what Qui-Gon has just said, rather than an independent statement of fact.

Something in Dooku's expression seems to provide the barest whisper of a clue, and Qui-Gon rounds on him, accusing. "What have you done to her?"

Although Dooku laughs softly, he has a bitter edge to his voice when he speaks. " _I_? What have _I_ done to her? Oh, Qui-Gon… wouldn't it be better to ask what _you_ have done to her?"


	9. Chapter 9

"Nasriel," Dooku says quietly, "go back to the _Morningstar_ and get some sleep. You've had a difficult couple of days. And Qui-Gon and I have things to talk about that you don't need to hear."

The Padawan bows silently to her Master, and slips past him, up the boarding ramp.

"All right," Qui-Gon says, when she is gone. "You wanted to talk. Talk."

"Dejarik," Dooku proposes. "You know, we always did communicate so much better over a game and a drink. I still have some of that Chandrilan wine you used to like."

Actually, Qui-Gon has never especially liked the cloying sweetness and high alcohol content of the vintage in question. He does, however, appreciate its effect on Dooku's usually beskar-reinforced mental shields: for a Sentinel, the man has a magnificently low tolerance to liquor. Fair exchange, after all, is no robbery, and Qui-Gon knows that the play in a game of dejarik, regardless of who wins, strips away the barricades of his own mind with the ruthless efficiency of acid on steel.

By noon, he has won two of five games and succeeded in visibly rattling Dooku – once only and for barely a minute, but a distinct victory when compared to every previous encounter they have had. And one minute is more than enough to get straight answers to two questions: yes, the Shaman of the Whills is at Nar Haaska, and yes, Dooku has come here with Nasriel for precisely that reason.

Qui-Gon stands to leave, midway through a game he could have won. "I'm going to go and talk to Nasriel. We both know I would be justified in placing you under arrest and taking you back to Coruscant to stand trial –"

"I don't recognize the Senate's authority," Dooku counters.

" _Regardless_ ," the Jedi Master continues firmly, "I owe you something at least for fetching Nasriel, so… be gone within the hour, or I will have no excuse for letting you go."

Dooku nods slowly. "Get the comlink back from Nasriel; you won't hear from me again unless you call me. Which is, of course, always an option. Should you come to your senses and see how ruinously corrupt the Republic is, you are always welcome here."

"Under your rules, and your new Master's rules, and the Shaman's ideas. I thank you, _no_. I will not make that mistake again." He leaves, but not before making his move on the dejarik board – shifting a pawn forwards to check Dooku's king, just to prove he _could_ have won.

Outside, the cold has turned to snow; large cottony clumps fall thickly, but the sea wind catches them above the rocky ground and hurls them back into the air, so that only the finest froth of snow yet covers the ground, melting almost as fast as it gathers. Qui-Gon hurries across the open expanse between the ships, leaving no footprints on the wet stone.

Aboard _Morningstar_ , the thermostat is turned up to mimic the mild climate of a Coruscant summer day, yet Nasriel lies curled up on the lower bunk, cloak hugged close around her like armor against the outside world, body pressed close against the bulkhead toward which her face is turned. Stiffly, Qui-Gon sits down on the floor beside the bunk.

"Tahl is worried about you," he says bluntly.

"And 're you?" the Padawan enquires, muffled. The question hangs halfway between past and present tenses, a living thing waiting for an answer.

Qui-Gon deliberately replies to the question using the past tense, knowing she intended to ask in the present. "I wasn't worried. You've grown up a lot lately; I knew I could trust you to make the right decisions."

"Well, I haven't." She glances at him, over her shoulder, trying to gauge his response.

"No. Abandoning your mission, and agreeing to meet the Shaman of the Whills, in the company of Octavius Dooku… was not the right decision."

"Why aren't you mad at me, then?"

"You abandoned the mission because you felt unsafe – which I told you to do. And I am in no position to reproach anybody for anything regarding the Shaman of the Whills or Dooku." Qui-Gon sighs. "It's a long story, but… we have time to spare." Still facing away, Nasriel stiffens almost imperceptibly when her Master strokes the coarse, windblown tangles of her hair. He shifts tactfully away, folding his hands in his lap. Through the open cockpit hatch, Qui-Gon can see the viewports, and, through the swirling snow outside, the upper edge of Dooku's ship, swiftly and silently rising into, and then out of, the scope of the transparisteel pane. At least the Separatist can still take a hint, and is leaving with a minimum of fuss.

"So tell already," Nasriel grumbles, shying away as far as possible: not very, in the narrow bunk.

"As you may have gathered, Dooku and I have never been friendly. Not when I was first apprenticed, not when I was a Knight, not when I was training Feemor… _never_. Dooku made no secret of the fact that he was often deliberately unpleasant. That doesn't matter.

"He was still on the Council up until about… oh, two years after you came to Coruscant. The Temple is not so large a space as it seems; I couldn't readily avoid him, even after I was Knighted. Hence the incessant wandering. A year after the Council decided Feemor was ready for the Trials, Dooku suggested we put our differences aside for a while, because he wanted me to meet a friend of his."

Nasriel chuckles darkly. "Is it someone I know?"

"Yes. The Shaman of the Whills – who, as you know by now, is one step shy of being a full-blown Sith lord. I was away from the Temple nearly five years – ask Feemor when we get home; he can confirm if you don't believe me. Five years under the tutelage of the Shaman," he repeats musingly. "It's just as well I didn't want my sanity for a while. In the end… Tahl came looking for me. I nearly killed her. I did blind her. Force lightning. It's a Sith trick –as unpleasant for all concerned as you'd expect. Tahl will have told you that she was blinded in an accident on a mission we ran together, because she insisted that that was the story Obi-Wan, you, Anakin, and anyone outside the family would be told.

"She didn't want you to think less of me – or more accurately, she wanted you to think me better than I am. While that sounds strange… if it's any consolation to you, I don't enjoy keeping secrets. Xanatos knows the truth – after that fiasco at Telos where he nearly went the same way, I felt I had to explain to him. Feemor knows, too. And Yoda, of course, but that's all. There are things the Jedi would prefer not to become common knowledge."

Nasriel is looking at him now, he notices peripherally: twisting around to stare, a peculiar expression on her face. She is more opaque and complex now, more confusing, but when he turns away from the viewport to stare back, he can pick out a few components of what she is feeling. The sharp stab of betrayal. Paradigms shifting. Unwilling, but absolute, belief in the truth of what he has said. And very faint, in the background, a shadow of sympathy.

"Why didn't – what about –" Nasriel stumbles over the beginning of several questions, and eventually gives up, with a sigh expressive of overwhelming bewilderment. "Xan at Telos – and Obi-Wan at Jabiim not a year ago – and _me_ – we all fell or nearly did and you didn't think to _tell_ us? What about what Master Yoda's always saying, once you start down the dark path it will haunt you forever?"

"What if he's wrong?" It's a logical conclusion to reach. Xanatos, hot-headed though he always has been and always will be, is acknowledged one of the Order's greatest warriors. Obi-Wan briefly withdrew from the Council after Asajj Ventress came closer to turning him to the Dark Side than any before her, but he is back now, scarred, but not, in essence, changed. And if Yoda is wrong, there is hope for them all and for Dooku as well.

"What if he's _not_?" Terror. Despair. Nasriel is young; the Jedi Order is all she knows, all she has, and now that it is too late to close off the preceding week as if it had never happened, she is afraid she will lose everything. There is a tell-tale softness about her eyes: the Padawan has not been asleep all morning, she has been crying. "I don't know what to do. I don't know if I can go back after all this."

"After all what? Tell me."

Sitting up and wiping her eyes, Nasriel takes a breath and is about to start explaining, when Qui-Gon's comlink rings. He doesn't answer it, although the callsign is Obi-Wan's – and Obi-Wan is not one for calling unless he has to. The Councilor leaves a message.

 _Master, I'm told you were the last person to be in contact with Jango Fett. I don't know why you aren't answering your comm, but please call me back and leave for Coruscant as soon as you can. This isn't something I can explain on a recording._

Qui-Gon glances at Nasriel, who shrugs, and says listlessly, "Let's go. We can talk on the way, I guess; it's a full day's jump, and Bi-An sounds like he's stressed."

"I'm not forgetting about this, you understand. I still want to know what happened while you were with Dooku." He is glad he told her about his own history with the Shaman, but that is only a start. Something has changed behind Nasriel's wide golden eyes; some foreign and malign influence has come into the bond Master and Padawan share, and until he knows what it is, he can do nothing about it.


	10. Chapter 10

Even in hyperspace, they don't have time to talk. Anakin has been tinkering with _Morningstar_ 's comms array for the last few months, and the ship is now one of the few in the Galaxy capable of exchanging comm signals while traveling at lightspeed. An old friend, Astri Oni, calls from Dex's café on Coruscant, bare minutes after they take off from Nar Haaska.

Qui-Gon looks to Nasriel before accepting the call, a wordless apology for putting her off again. He tries to ignore the Padawan's weary expression as she hugs him perfunctorily, and slinks off in the direction of the engine room, by telling himself that Nasriel is quite capable of waiting, and this call could well be important.

It isn't.

Astri chatters for ten minutes before getting to the point, which is that she'd heard Qui-Gon was offworld and is wondering, firstly, if he is all right, secondly, if Nasriel is all right, and thirdly, when they are going to be back. Because Dex has disappeared again and she has _no_ idea where he could be and it's been over a week and that's why she's calling from the café, because –

Qui-Gon manages to interrupt for just long enough to inform Astri that she could better use her comlink credits by calling someone who is not on the other side of the Galaxy, and that Anakin might be available to help.

"But in the meantime," he concludes, "I'm sure Dex will be able to look after himself." Astri disappointedly rings off, leaving Qui-Gon to wonder what she had hoped to achieve by calling. It also leaves him free to go and find his Padawan.

Engine rooms, however small and cramped, are generally perfect hiding places, full of complicated machinery and even more complicated negative spaces. He smells trouble before he sees it – a salt-and-oil, coppery scent like an overheating pod engine, rising above the thickly fuel-laden air of the engine room. Rounding a corner, ducking a thick tangle of cables, he finds Nasriel.

She sits, legs crossed, head bowed, in the crawl space between two whirring generators. Her hands lie open and supine on the floor in front of her, and his beskar steel knife, which he only now realizes she had lifted from his belt, lies across her palms. Nasriel's hands, the knife, and the metal deck plate are all slicked alike with the vivid purple blood that seeps slowly from matching horizontal slashes in her wrists.

Although he is not as flexible as he used to be, and although it is murder on his protesting joints, Qui-Gon sits down, facing Nasriel and mirroring her pose. For a long minute, they both detachedly watch the trickles of blood, but at length, the Master breaks the silence.

"What, exactly, are you trying to achieve?"

"I want to die," Nasriel whispers, still motionless. When this elicits no response, she continues, "You promised – when I was _five_ – that if I fell and if that endangered anyone else, you'd kill me. You _promised_."

"Yes." After another long pause, he says quietly, "I don't think you are trying to kill yourself."

"Why?"

He gestures lightly to the cuts. "Because I know that you know that veins, especially if you don't cut them right through, drain slowly enough that one of two things will happen before any serious damage is done: it will clot and stop bleeding, or someone will find you. If you wanted to bleed out fast enough to die, you would have cut an artery lengthwise. In other words, you just wanted to make enough of a mess that I would notice." The words are harsh, but his tone is not, and even her Force aura supports this conclusion, with its sheen of surreal normalcy, its cynically synthetic sparkle dusting the surface of a deep well of emptiness. And she knows he can see the emptiness under the sparkle.

Qui-Gon's comlink rings again, its shrill buzz echoing in the small room. He flips open the housing, pulls out the power cell, and drops both pieces on the floor, before turning back to Nasriel.

"Whoever it is can wait," he says, noticing as he does so that there is a faint spark of hope in the Padawan's hitherto blank eyes. In the old days, this would have been classified as total despair, but of late they have both been learning to be thankful for ridiculously insignificant things. "Now, tell me what is troubling you."

Raising her dripping hands and holding them out, palms down, Nasriel cocks her head to one side and stares at him, defiant, calculating.

Qui-Gon pushes her gently away, violet smears rubbing off on his own fingertips. "Sharing memories is merely informative. Words are healing. Use words." The pool of blood is congealing into a sickening gel on the hot metal of the deck, the thick dead smell of it stifling the air in the engine room. "And you should get cleaned up. Just this once, we can leave the mess in here for the hangar droids at home."

In one fluid motion, Nasriel unfolds her limbs and stands; from sheer force of habit, extends one hand to help her Master up. Back when she was smaller and he was suppler, the custom was a joke between them; not so much now. The Padawan's hands are greasy with blood and cold to the touch, but Qui-Gon tries to ignore that.

Later, in the cabin, Nasriel silently washes her hands and the bloody knife in the tiny basin, and fetches the med box to tape together the cuts on her wrists. It's not an easy task to complete one-handed, so Qui-Gon offers to help.

"Yeah. Thanks." The Padawan accepts the assistance matter-of-factly, and watches, heavy dark hair hiding her face, as her Master tends to her self-inflicted wounds.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" he checks a few times, always receiving the same silent negative in reply, even when he knows perfectly well he is hurting her, because it is not possible for an investigative deliberate pinch, right on the edge of a cut, not to hurt.

He has to ask. "What is it you're trying to punish yourself for, minx?"

"We'll just add that to the list and never mention it again, shall we?" Nasriel replies bitterly.

"What list?"

"What's on that cord. And what happened while I was with Dooku. And why you lied to us all for so many years. And now, what I'm trying to atone for. You never used to do this to me; we always dealt with things as they came up."

"We have time now to work through the whole list twice, once backwards, once forwards, if you wish. You have a seat, I'll make some tea, and we'll talk." Tea has been an integral part of every serious discussion Qui-Gon has had with any of his Padawans. The simple ritual is calming, and the tea cups themselves are often used as distraction, diversion, something to look at when one cannot meet the other's eyes.

Nasriel, sitting in the co-pilot's seat, her favorite cup cradled in her hands, the stretched starlight from outside shining through the translucent green ceramic, begins to speak without the need for prompting, hunted, haunted, urgent. "You remember when I came home, after _all that_?" Some experiences are not to be named; not now and possibly not ever. "And I let it go. I released it. What happened doesn't have any control over me anymore. Or I thought so."

"I remember."

"I thought I'd forgiven them. The slavers. And – and the others. For what they did to those girls. For what they did to _me_. But I was with Dooku and the Shaman of the Whills. And he – the Shaman – took me back there. He had me walk through it again. And it was so dark, not like when I'm redoing memories with you. And I hated those men. I wanted them to burn to death, or something worse. I – I fell, Master, I hated them, I'm evil."

"Well, if that's _all_..." This is not an appropriate response. Qui-Gon sips his tea and starts afresh. "Padawan mine, everyone – every Jedi who has ever lived, _including_ Master Yoda, has, at some point in their life, truly hated somebody. A single instant of hate does not make you evil. I promise."

After a pause, a breath, Nasriel nods slowly. "Just how much do you think your _promise_ is worth?" She is not like Obi-Wan, who will hurt nobody by word or deed if he can avoid it, but whose scrupulous fairness will not allow him to hold back a reproach he feels is deserved. Nasriel is a strange girl, striking only out of pain, and only ever targeting those who, when in a rational mood, she loves the most.

Qui-Gon flinches, but takes the hit in stride. "I deserved that. As to the next item, I lied to you because I couldn't think how to explain without pushing you into asking for a transfer. I lied to Obi-Wan because, as I'm sure he will have told you, up until the Jabiim affair, he could not even imagine the possibility of reversing a turn to the Dark Side. Does that answer your question?"

"For now. We – we should finish this one later. At home. When we're not both tired and distracted."

Perhaps that is for the best: the last few days have been fraught and difficult. And the topic is not one that will submit to rough handling. Xanatos returned from Telos – and Obi-Wan from Jabiim – _wrecked_. Force knows the discussions following those cases took place a few sentences at a time, over spans of weeks. The lure of the Dark Side haunts this teaching line, it seems: the unending battle to continue along the Jedi path despite crushing odds is fought up ever steeper hills, with ever more inadequate weapons. Someday, someone really will fall: Qui-Gon is determined that it will _not_ be today, and it will _not_ be Nasriel.

"So," Nasriel says, forced cheerfulness breaking the spell of contemplation. "What _is_ on that cord?"

Qui-Gon laughs softly, and tugs upward on the cord, revealing the black stone charm knotted onto it. "It's just a rock."

"No." The Padawan is adamantly not accepting this explanation. "Nothing is ever _just_ what it looks like with you. What is it really?"

"Yours, now. Your grandmother sent it to me for safe-keeping until Rasla was old enough for it, and then your mother repeated the pattern, asking me to keep it for you. It's a homeworld custom I don't know much about – I'm told the stone can be handed on in any order, so long as it's being worn by someone. Rasla said you were to have it when you had passed some great trial. She wasn't specific." He reaches back to untie the knot in the leather cord, freeing it, though not without difficulty, for the long years have stiffened the leather; then beckons to Nasriel. "I think resisting the temptation of the Dark Side unaided is a suitably great trial."

Solemnly, Qui-Gon fastens the charm around Nasriel's neck. She picks it up, studying its even curve and lustrous surface, wondering.

"Thank you," the Padawan says, the image of calm politeness. Then, childlike, craving comfort, "May I have a hug? Please?"

"Of course."

Nasriel scrambles onto Qui-Gon's lap, confident, despite all that has passed today, of her safety there. Within minutes, she tumbles into the dreamless sleep of exhaustion, with her Master's arms around her, and her head resting on his shoulder. One hand is raised, around Qui-Gon's neck, fingers tangled in his hair; the other clasps the smooth black stone that was so hard earned. Lulled by the dull hum of the hyperdrive, the Padawan slumbers away the few hours that remain before _Morningstar_ reaches Coruscant.


	11. Chapter 11

Obi-Wan's Padawan, Ben, is waiting for them on the landing platform, twisted into lotus position and scowling as if he has been there a long time. The instant Qui-Gon appears in _Morningstar_ 's hatch, the boy is on his feet, storming toward the ship.

"What _kept_ you?" he demands, voice ragged-edged in frustration. "I've been out here waiting for you guys since Master Obi-Wan first called you."

That was fifteen hours ago. As a period of enforced inactivity and meditation, fifteen hours is nothing: Qui-Gon and Nasriel have often gone forty and more, on long journeys. Ben has forgotten to whom he is speaking; one does not simply _sass_ Qui-Gon Jinn and expect to get away with it.

"A useful lesson in patience," the Master admonishes coolly, and his Padawan's Padawan subsides, running one hand backwards through his hair and looking eerily like Obi-Wan did at that age.

"Would you come with me, please, Master Jinn?" Ben asks, suddenly polite and mindful. "Master Obi-Wan wants to speak with you as soon as possible."

Nasriel slips past them, to join Kijé Yenseh and Sima Orezna, who wave to her from the Temple doorway. By the look of things, the two Padawans have been waiting even longer than Ben – and Qui-Gon does not like to think how much trouble these two will get into for their vigil.

"Half an hour," he calls to Nasriel, "then you meet me at Obi-Wan's."

" _ThankyouMaster_!" his Padawan yells back as the trio disappear into the Temple.

Ben has used his Master's Council override to keep one of the lift-tubes locked _all night_ , and while this will no doubt have inconvenienced many of the Temple's denizens, it does allow him and Qui-Gon to reach the Kenobi quarters in two minutes flat, rather than the usual ten. Oddly, Anakin opens the door – he's supposed to be away until the middle of next week – and jerks his head impatiently back, a brusque invitation to enter. Obi-Wan appears from his room, voice-only comm in hand, apparently midway through a conversation, but the deep worry lines etched in his face lighten at the sight of his former Master.

Turning away again, "I'm sorry, Bail. I understand how you must feel," Obi-Wan says, continuing the comlink exchange. He visibly winces at the Senator's vehement reply.

" _No_ , Master Kenobi, you don't understand how I feel _at all_. If you ever got off your Jedi pedestal long enough to _love_ someone, love them so much that without them life is nothing to you, and they are _murdered_ , only then will you understand how I feel." Bail Organa shuts off the channel before Obi-Wan can reply, leaving the Councilor ashen.

"I _have_ , blast you," he hisses at the deactivated comlink, before regaining his composure and turning to Qui-Gon. "Master, the Aeschylus Theater at Alderaan was bombed the night before last. Breha Organa was there for an unscheduled performance that the opera company pulled together in honor of her birthday, so she and about a dozen of Alderaan's most influential nobles are dead. Preliminary reports suggest the attack matches Jango Fett's _modus operandi_ , and as you were most recently with him, I hoped you might know what was going on."

"Get Nasriel in here," Qui-Gon orders Anakin, who hovers near the door. He doesn't particularly care how, so long as it happens quickly – in the end, Anakin calls Madame Nu in the Archives, who calls Kijé, who accompanies the stray Padawan back.

"You wanted me, Master?" Nasriel asks demurely.

"Jango Fett, in connection with the Aeschylus Theater at Alderaan. Everything you know on the subject."

"What happened?" Nasriel's calm confusion flicks over in an instant to panic well concealed from all but her Master. "He set a detonator for..." she counts on her fingers. "Assuming I _was_ with Dooku three days, the detonator was set for four days ago. And the girl Dooku sent to fetch me changed the timer for two days later – so that the theater would be empty when it went off. The night before last. What's _happened_?"

"Who was this?" Anakin demands.

"A Togruta woman." After a moment's hesitation to recall the details, Nasriel rattles off a description. "Grey and white montrals. Facial markings like a mask over her eyes. Wearing a synth-silk shirt and leather leggings and boots. I guess she was a few years older than you are, Ani. Didn't get her name."

"Who hired Fett?" Obi-Wan probes sharply, and "That's not _all_ you know?" Qui-Gon asks, disappointed.

"That's _all_ ," Nasriel snaps, emotions hovering in the grey area on the edge of tears. The last few months, she has been crying altogether too much and too easily – Qui-Gon would prefer it if she could restrain herself. A few simple questions should not a breakdown cause. "I don't know if I knew anything else; it could be gone by now. I've – I've had a pretty messy few days, Bi-An."

"It's all right, Sriel, calm down," Obi-Wan says distractedly, giving the impression that it is not remotely all right. "Master, the Council gave Senator Organa their _word_ they would find out who is responsible for this."

" _Dooku_ ," Anakin spits, mechno-hand crushed into a tight fist, aura roiling with fury. "Who else? Why are you even wasting your time?"

Whirling on him like an angry kajitt, claws out ready for a fight, "He kriffing saved my life, _Skywalker_ ," Nasriel hisses in reply. "And Dooku is not the worst traitor in this lineage, not by a _few hundred parsecs_."

"Now is not the time!" Qui-Gon growls, effectively silencing Nasriel. He grabs her arm, bringing her to stand beside him, though she still seethes in quiet rebellion, and her breath rasps in and out.

"Force, we are an emotional pack," Ben observes, a rueful grin on his face. He's partly right. Disputes, scenes, and shouting matches in this family are as common as rust in a junkyard, but real quarrels, with real anger, are rare – the most recent was the argument about Nasriel, eleven years ago. And they do have an excuse, of sorts: most teaching lines don't have three of the family on the Council and five on the unofficial HoloNet favorites list, and very few are forever running into Sith and related troubles. That's where the root of the matter really lies, Qui-Gon supposes: each of them, in some hidden corner of their minds, carries a carefully suppressed and concealed shadow of the Dark Side.

Glaring up at her Master, Nasriel draws back her mouth in a snarl, and emphatically bites her tongue, to sign that she will not say what she feels she ought to. Because he does not want her to tell the truth. She ignores the blood that wells up around the white points of her teeth, letting it stain her lips, and the effect is singularly gruesome. After her brief time with the Shaman, no doubt she will follow the pattern set by her elders, and get more involved in family clashes, instead of waiting on the sidelines or trying to negotiate peace. Qui-Gon does not look forward to that.

He sighs. "Obi-Wan, could I have a moment of your time?"

"Can it _wait_?" The younger Master is already keying in another callsign. "You said Fett was still at Kamino, didn't you?"

"It's important." While the current busyness offers a superficial reprieve from discussing past trouble too long neglected, and for that reason alone it is tempting to continue indefinitely as before, Qui-Gon knows that every delay, every off-putting, will only make the inevitable reaction – confusion and sharp betrayal – harder to bear.

"So is this," Obi-Wan retorts, checking the callsign and opening the channel. "Boba? Hello. This is Master Kenobi calling from Coruscant. Could I speak to your father, please?" Although the reply is unclear across the room, Obi-Wan's stunned expression is not. "Jango says you're the only Jedi he's interested in talking to, Master," he relays, handing over the comlink.

"Mr. Fett," Qui-Gon says calmly, "I believe you still owe me a favor. I'll call that in now, if I may."

"Fine," the bounty-hunter replies, just intelligible over the static of an ion storm somewhere along the transmission route. "What do you need?"

"To know who hired you for the attack on the Aeschylus Theater."

"Ah." Fett sounds troubled. "That could be a problem. I never got her name, just her money."

" _Her_?" Obi-Wan mouths. " _Her who_?"

"Did you ever see the lady?" Qui-Gon asks, translating the Great Negotiator's atypically blunt query into more restrained language. "Could you describe her?"

"Uhh... Human, about forty Standard, white hair, fair skin, average height – you know what, I've fought her. Must be ten years ago now. Didn't get her name that time either, but she was in charge of the Bando Gora crew back then, if it helps. That guy Tyranus had me try to kill her, but she lost the fight and ran, so he picked me for the cloning project instead."

Qui-Gon motions to Nasriel to give him her datapad, hastily scrawls one word across the touchscreen, and turns the 'pad to show Obi-Wan: _Komari_. The Councilor closes his eyes for a long moment, and nods.

"Thank you, Jango," the older Master says softly. "We know her."

"You want me to find her again? Because I can. Find, capture, or kill, whatever you want."

Obi-Wan catches his Master's attention, holds up two fingers. _Second option._

"If you could convince the lady to talk to us, I think that would help. As you may have gathered... no soft handling required."

"All right. I'll call you back on this comm when I've got her." Fett rings off abruptly, leaving the Kenobi quarters in stunned silence.

Ben breaks it first. "What's a Komari when it's at home?"

"When she's at home, Ben, Komari Vosa would be here in the Temple. It's been a long time, but she used to be a Jedi – Master Dooku's apprentice." For Ben's benefit, Obi-Wan rattles off a sanitized version of the truth – the boy is only fifteen, and there are details he does not need to know. Qui-Gon finds himself blackly amused at this: Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Great Negotiator, the darling of Council and HoloNet alike, who survived Ventress' best attempts to turn him, also tells half-truths and untruths to his Padawan.

"So she's like you," Ben says to Qui-Gon.

"Not really, no," the Master deflects the accusation. "Obi-Wan, are you going to call this Senator back now or wait until you know more?"

Anakin coughs. "Someone else should. He sounded pretty chubazzi karked off at you, Master. But not me – I'm going out."

"I'll call," Nasriel offers unexpectedly. "It was kind of my fault the bomb went off when it did. And I guess I know the most about it."

Obi-Wan tosses her the comlink. "The Net should review my nickname – _Great Negotiator_ hardly seems apt when nobody wants to talk to me."

"Maybe that's why," the Padawan replies cryptically, keying in the callsign and taking a deep breath to steady herself. "Here goes nothing."


	12. Chapter 12

To Qui-Gon's boundless private astonishment a year ago, Obi-Wan Kenobi had, for once, complimentary words to say about a politician, and to the whole family's less private astonishment, a Senator had been discovered to actually _prefer_ plain speaking. Just at present, Senator Bail Organa is not interested in talking to Obi-Wan, because Obi-Wan should have known by now not to attempt politics on Senator Organa. Instead, Nasriel is calling the Senator, to inform him who contracted his wife's murder.

Organa answers gruffly on the voice-only comm's second ring. "I said _go away_ , Kenobi."

"It's Nasriel Threeb, Senator. I'm sorry to disturb you again," the Padawan says, with just the right balance of apology and urgency.

"I've met you, haven't I? With Master Jinn? No, hang up, child. You're too young and innocent to get involved in this."

"Senator Organa," Nasriel says firmly, gripping the comlink so hard that Qui-Gon is concerned for its continued intactness, "You think that I am innocent because, by Human standards, I am abnormally short and I have abnormally large eyes. I assure you, an appearance of innocence is purely a cultural construct. Besides, I'm already involved. I am calling on Master Kenobi's behalf, to tell you that the person responsible for the theater's being bombed is a person known to us, and that the person responsible for the exact time of the bombing is a person known to someone we can find. We can keep you updated on the investigation if you wish."

"Thank you," Organa mutters. "I would appreciate that. And… if you could convey my apologies to Master Kenobi. I'm afraid I was rather harsh toward him."

"Of course. Though I'm sure he is quite aware of the difficult situation you are in," the Padawan responds, diplomatic training resurfacing abruptly. "And while I don't pretend to understand its magnitude, I am sorry for your loss, Senator." Organa cuts the link, and Nasriel grins at Obi-Wan. "Step aside, the Great Negotiator."

"You haven't had to do it every single day for the last five years."

Nasriel raises one hand in the classic 'point-of-order' gesture used in family debates. "Um, actually… yes I have. I work with Qui-Gon, remember?"

Before Obi-Wan can produce a suitable retort, Anakin returns, hovering in the doorway. "Sriel, my car's got its engine block sitting on the floor. You won't have to go anywhere… can I take your usual citibike?"

"Nyard'msh k'rall," Nasriel tells him the activation code, a phrase meaning _check your landing zone_ in Ryl, the Twi'lek hometongue. The bike's former user is widely suspected to be Master Secura.

When Anakin is gone, complaining about the impossibility of Twi'lek spelling, Obi-Wan says casually, "I've got a few minutes free now if you still want to talk to me, Qui-Gon." He is being himself again: Councilor, diplomat, Jedi, _equal_ , earlier unmasked anxiety all but forgotten.

Nasriel grasps the problem with this, and solves it by the simple expedient of taking Ben's arm and drawing him toward the door.

"Come spar with me, Ben? I'm way out of practice still, and the grownups will be ages before they want us." The Padawans close the door behind them.

Obi-Wan locates the quarters' two meditation cushions, and solemnly sits down, cross-legged, on his own, leaving the more comfortable one for Qui-Gon. Not, of course, that Jedi are encouraged to pay attention to the comfort or otherwise of their surroundings.

"Well?" he asks.

"Well." Repeating to Obi-Wan what he has already told Nasriel is the work of almost a quarter-hour – not because the younger Master interrupts, but because of the numerous pauses in the narrative, brief searches for exactly the right phrase. Words, it often seems, matter as much to the Great Negotiator as the truth beneath them. Story complete, gaze fixed on the sunlit distance beyond the balcony windows, Qui-Gon waits for the storm. It begins, so typical with Obi-Wan, softly.

"Who else knows about this?" he asks.

"Dooku –"

"Obviously. _In_ the Temple?"

"Nasriel. Xanatos. Tahl. I told Nasriel that Master Yoda knew." A breath, feeling the younger Jedi's blue-steel stare bore into him. "He doesn't."

Obi-Wan scowls. "Feemor knew you were gone, those five years, but not where or why. So all this time, Xan and Tahl –"

"Have kept a secret for me, yes. _Nasriel,_ " he specifies, mindful of his duty as a Master to protect his Padawan, "is entirely guiltless in the whole affair."

"Stellar job you've done of that so far," Obi-Wan observes coldly, answering the intention rather than the words, as if it is written in the air before him. As, in a way, it is. "With all of us," he adds, an extra refinement of cruelty; but even that does not cross the rigid lines of justice with which he binds himself. They sit in uncongenial silence for a while, each wondering what more there is to say. Obi-Wan is the first to find words.

"I should go to the Council with this," he says uncertainly.

"You will do what you must, Obi-Wan."

"I _am_ going to the Council," Obi-Wan decides sharply, standing and moving toward the door. "Just leave, Master. Please. You might go and find Nasriel – _They_ will want to talk to you both." The laughingly melodramatic menace that Qui-Gon's Padawans have long emphasized in the plural pronoun has become, of late, far less laughable and far more menacing, now that Obi-Wan is one of _Them_. Qui-Gon goes to find Nasriel.

She is not in the main dojo, which at this hour is crowded and chaotic, nor in any of its subsidiary salles, nor yet in the less likely Spire dojo in the center of the Temple. Eventually, Qui-Gon tracks down his Padawan in one of the wide corridors in the laboratory wing. A faint smell of bacci lingers in the air, along with the confusing smoky, chemical odor permeating the area – this is the one place in the Temple that anyone can smoke unnoticed, and many of Nasriel's friends take full advantage of the fact. This wing is also in and out of use at odd times of the day, and mazelike to strangers, and lit with peculiar glowpanels that make everything from the bright green linoleum floors to the yellow warning signs on the laboratory doors look dull and greyed.

Nasriel sits in the recessed doorway of a laboratory currently locked, closely studying something cupped in her hands. In the time it takes Qui-Gon to traverse the length of the hallway, the Padawan ignores six different people passing – but looks up as her Master approaches.

"I didn't have my lightsaber, so Ben went off with Ahsoka and I came up here," she explains.

"Obi-Wan has gone to the Council, so no doubt we will be summoned before very long." When Nasriel nods, calmly accepting the trouble on the horizon, he continues. "And until Obi-Wan told him... Yoda did _not_ know what was going on."

"Why did you tell me he did, then?" The question sounds like a challenge, the first experimental thrust of a sparring match, intended to gauge an opponent's defenses.

"You were frightened. I thought if I told you that Master Yoda was aware of the circumstance that frightened you, you would be comforted. I was wrong." Wrong to assume there could be a quick answer for what, to Nasriel at least, was a lie twice as long-lived as herself. Wrong, and patronizing, to assume a Jedi Padawan would value comfort over truth. Above all, he was wrong to attempt patching the damage of one lie with another. "I'm sorry."

Hearing but apparently ignoring the explanation, Nasriel opens her hands, revealing a tiny, iridescent moth perched in her palm. "This was trying to get into one of the glowpanels, so I caught it. Isn't it beautiful?" she says simply. Taken at face value, this looks like avoidance of a difficult topic. But few Jedi ever take – or give – anything at face value. Nasriel is merely accepting his apology in the spirit he intended: a return to their old habits of candid normality, where an unusual cloud formation or pretty beetle is a valid reason for interrupting a serious discussion.

"It is." The moth quivers, its threadlike antennae perhaps sensing its captor's coming words. Or perhaps it only cares about escaping back to the glowpanel, and this conversation is irrelevant to it.

"What else have you lied to me about?" the Padawan asks.

"Not loving Tahl." And that really is all. The other deception, the hiding of the fact that he, Qui-Gon Jinn, was once a Sith in all but name, and, so far as the Jedi Council is concerned, probably still is, was enough to keep track of without adding any smaller lies.

Nasriel laughs. "I knew _that_."

"You're not angry about the last few days. Surprised. But not angry."

"No." The Padawan is staring steadily at him, eyes aglow in the grey light of the doorway. "I've had time to think. And I realized that Falling, or almost Falling, or whatever evil thing you did, or were, so long ago... compared to the good that you've done... compared to the good that you _are_... it's nothing. A tiny green moth weighed against the foundations of the Temple. It doesn't even shake the scales." She grins, dismissing the philosophical mood, but not before Qui-Gon has had time to absorb exactly what she said and meant. "We're in deep chizzk, aren't we?"

"I believe so." Nasriel will be in almost as much trouble as her Master – because in the eyes of the Council, Falling is Falling, however long ago or recently, and Falling is irredeemable. They sent Obi-Wan through hell after he returned from Jabiim, and Obi-Wan did not even definitely Fall. Qui-Gon fully expects the next few hours to be some of the most difficult in his long life. "Nasriel, remind us of the rules about lightsabers."

"A lightsaber is the only thing a Jedi truly owns, and his right to its possession is inalienable –" she halts, suddenly understanding the ancient law she is reciting. "Except through dishonor."

"Yes." Qui-Gon unhooks the Padawan's 'saber from his belt, where it has hung next to his own for over a week, ever since Jango Fett decided he didn't want his hostage to be armed. "So I had better return you this. And I wonder if you would do me a favor? Would you assume custody of _my_ lightsaber? Temporarily."

"Master..."

"Even the Council can't force me to surrender something I don't have."

Nasriel nods, gingerly accepting the weapon in her free hand, turning it as if she has never seen it before. In a way, he supposes, she hasn't. "I would be honored." She's troubled, by this latest threat and so much else. "What's going to happen to us? Because... because what Bi-An said, before we left to look for Jango. He said I'd have to tell the Council about what happened while I was... gone. Or they'll split us up. And he said something about Komari Vosa, but she's _back_ now, so I don't know if I'm in more trouble or less."

"Nasriel, I don't know what's going to happen. But Komari Vosa doesn't have anything to do with the trouble we're in now, and I will do my best to ensure you are not reassigned unless you want to be."

"I'm not frightened now, Master. I'm okay. You can tell me the truth." He reaches out to take her hand, and the green insect escapes, fluttering away to the nearest glowpanel, a creature fallen into darkness but trying vainly to get back to the light, not knowing that finally reaching its goal would kill it. Qui-Gon hopes the metaphor is not too apt. The Light and its sworn servants are vicious to those who reject it, however briefly.

"Tell you the truth? I did. I have no lies left." His comlink rings, shrilly, and he notices that the caller is Obi-Wan. Nasriel rolls her eyes, reaches across to press the _answer_ key.

"Qui-Gon, you two are wanted in the Spire. _Now_." Obi-Wan hangs up without waiting for a reply, and here, in the corridor, Nasriel pulls herself to her feet and tugs gently at Qui-Gon.

"No point putting it off," he agrees. Casting one last shared glance at the iridescent moth still flapping around the light, they stride toward doom, brazenly unafraid. By the time they reach the Council Chamber, it will be at least ten minutes past _now_.

Obi-Wan will be _furious_.


	13. Chapter 13

We're in trouble again. Even the weather thinks we're in trouble, laying it on heavy with pouring rain and menacing thunderclouds –the Council Chamber has the best weather of any room in town. I swear _They_ order up storms specially to help unnerve out-of-line Jedi. As if any Jedi minded what the weather was doing.

Of course we're in trouble: I don't remember a single time Qui-Gon and I were called up to the Council and _weren't_ in trouble. But usually it's something we can – and do – laugh about the moment we're out of the room. This time I think it's serious.

I guess Obi-Wan didn't tell them, or didn't know, about me with Dooku, because the first thing Master Yoda said was to me, asking if I knew the reason we'd been called in. He then told me, so the question was irrelevant.

"Yeah," I said. I don't like Council scoldings, because I'm not as slick as Qui-Gon, and my vocabulary tends to revert to twelve-year-old levels, and I always feel stupid.

"All you have to say on the subject, that is?"

"Yeah, pretty much." Then I remembered I should probably explain. "It's my fault, Master Yoda – I mean, _now_ is my fault, I – chizzk happened –" and I remembered I shouldn't say _chizzk_ in the Council Chamber, "I was with some… strange people… and some interesting things happened, and I thought I'd Fallen for sure… and…"

Qui-Gon shook his head. Usually, when we're in trouble, he has time to remind me _not to talk_ , because I think he thinks I sound stupid too, but this time we were in a hurry as well as in trouble. "Padawan Threeb had the misfortune of spending three days with Count Dooku, who took it upon himself to divulge to her officially classified information."

And Master Yoda said anything the Council didn't know about was by definition _not_ officially classified, and if Qui-Gon didn't mind _shutting up,_ deal with Padawan Threeb first, this Council would rather. I don't think I've ever heard anybody but Tahl tell him to shut up. And then everybody was asking me questions at once and the only person I could understand was Master Mundi. So I told Master Mundi all I could remember about Dooku and about why I thought I'd Fallen, but I didn't say anything about exactly _what_ memories the Shaman had me redo.

Master Windu interrupted me partway through and dragged one hand over his face as if he was very, very weary, and said that they most emphatically had other things to talk to me about, but that this was not the best time or place. "Padawan Threeb, you are hereby placed on probation pending further investigation," he said. "You will remain available to speak to members of this Council, and you will not leave the Temple unaccompanied, or the planet under any circumstances, until further notice. You are now excused. You may go and wait in the antechamber."

"I may go, or you want me to go?" I asked.

Obi-Wan nodded toward the door, but I didn't move. In the end, my Master turned to me, looking more tired and disheartened than I'd seen him in a long time. This whole case has taken a lot out of him, but he was still looking after me.

"Nasriel, go and wait outside. I promise you, you do not want to be here."

"Yes, Master," I said. On my part, that little play-act was just to tell the Council what I couldn't put in words: namely, that _I_ still trust Qui-Gon, and that this whole fiasco is a complete non-starter as far as I'm concerned. See, because I'm his Padawan, I'm the one most affected if... if, completely against all laws of logic, and everything everybody has ever known, it turns out he _is_ a Sith, not _was_. Not that I believe that for an instant, but I had to prove it to the Council.

And to myself.

So here I am, sitting on the floor in the antechamber, writing. I had this journal in my cloak pocket, and Qui-Gon gave me back my comlink – hang on –

 _Later_ : I'm going to be absolutely no use to anybody for a while, just as soon as this sinks in, so I have to get it down on paper as fast as I can. Gree Yarzakawula called. Gree's the Sentinel who rescued me from the slavers three months ago, and she and her traveling partner stayed behind to help the local law enforcement mop up, catch what bad guys they could, see that all the other girls – and boys – and women – were in a safe place.

And what turns up is that the... I don't want to say _victims_ , because _I'm_ one of them, but that's the word for it... are from so many different worlds, and the slavers and their... _clients_ are from so many different worlds, and so many of the _clients_ are prominent public figures, that the only way to properly try the case in a court of law is to handle it out of the Galactic Courts at Coruscant. The first hearing starts the day after tomorrow, which means those slavers are _right this moment_ in law-enforcement cells _somewhere on the same world as me_. 

The court has subpoenaed me as a witness. They sent the papers to... my home, I guess... the quarters, but I haven't been home in over a week, so I didn't know about it. Gree's mad that nobody called me, and telling her _nobody could have_ didn't help. She and her partner, Foz Ferens, were summonsed as well. Either way, the day after tomorrow and for Force knows how many days after, I'll have to be in the same room as those... men. And if Bi-An gets his stiff-necked arrogant way, and this whole Sith mess ends the way I fear it will, I'll be there alone, without my Master.

I have to tell Qui-Gon.

I _can't_ tell Qui-Gon; he has enough to deal with right now.

The _Council_ don't know what those misbegotten sons of vetches did to the girls they kidnapped, and I'm supposed to tell it in precise detail in an open courtroom. They don't clear the room for cases this momentous. I can't _do_ that, I can't, I _can't_ –

 _Later_ : I'm not sure how I got home. I vaguely recall sitting in the Council antechamber, trying to breathe, and someone helping me up and telling me I was hyperventilating, _settle down_. On reflection, I think it must have been Kijé, because the next thing I knew, I was sitting on the sofa back in the quarters, with him standing over me looking worried. He said he'd used a Force-suggestion to get me to calm down.

"You overdid it," I said, because I wasn't exactly conscious on the way home.

In the quarters, all the lights were on, and the thermostat up, so that it was warm and peaceful. Outside, a winter thunderstorm raged across the city, driving rain against the walls of the Temple and against our windows, and every few minutes a flash of lightning blinded the bruise-dark sky. It was the end of a mission: I was kneeling on the floor in front of the sofa, drinking tea, half-listening to Kijé talk about what happened while I was away, and Tahl was sitting on the sofa, wielding muja oil and a comb on the knots in my hair – the tidy binding off of another job completed, same as last mission and every mission before that, ever since I was ten and drank hot chocolate instead of tea. Except this mission still isn't properly finished yet.

That sank in quite forcefully not a moment later, when the door slammed open and the storm came inside, in the form of Obi-Wan holding forth about something, and Qui-Gon in the _foulest_ mood I've seen or felt him in since... ever. He spotted Kijé at once, and pointed into the corridor.

"You – _out_."

Kijé stood up to go, but paused in the doorway. "I'm very sorry, Master Jinn," he said quietly. I'm still not sure if he was apologizing for being here, or if he meant he was sorry about what had happened, but I can't see how he could already have heard about it.

As soon as he had left, Qui-Gon continued what he and Obi-Wan were talking about, as if Tahl and I weren't there.

"Where's she supposed to go, then?"

" _Anywhere_ ," Obi-Wan said desperately. "I don't care, _They_ don't care, send her to Dex for all the difference it makes."

I was observing Tahl in the window, watching her get more and more steamed up, and finally she snapped. "Qui, my eyes may not work, but I could hear you boys coming halfway down the hall, the _least_ you can do is say hello." _She doesn't know_. The idea sets my heart pounding. Tahl _doesn't know_ I know why she's blind. She doesn't know what the Council wanted with us, or even most of where we've been.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"The Council has decided," Qui-Gon told me, very slowly, as if he was talking to a youngling, "that it is not wise – not _safe_ , was the word used – for an impressionable Padawan to be left in my vicinity and under my influence. If they meant any Padawan but you, I would agree. However. _They_ have delegated Obi-Wan to see to it that you are no longer in these quarters by the end of an hour."

"Where _am_ I supposed to go, then?"

"You could come stay with me and Ben," Obi-Wan offered, "or Anakin and Ahsoka... or Feemor, I suppose. Xan and Bruck are offworld again. You're not in trouble, Sriel, you can go anywhere you want."

Foz Ferens had sneaked up into the doorway and heard almost everything. Sentinels are good at that. "For someone not in trouble, she's having Council-kriffed-up royally lousy day, isn't she?" he said. "Come on, Blue, grab your gear, we'll shove Corri onto the floor and you can come stay with us downstairs." I wanted to. The Sentinel quarters of the Temple are the best alternative I have, if I can't be home. But Obi-Wan stuck his oar in, of course.

"It's winter, Ferens; even I know the Temp is full at this time of year... and it would be better if Nasriel could stay with family."

"She will. She's one of us, on account of her Master's one of us," Foz said, pure obstinacy. "Kid's been drifter raised from the ground up. And I don't know what-all treacherous chizzk goes on up here, _Master_ Kenobi, but the Sentinels look after their own. Gree heard something was up, and sent me to tell Blue she has haven with us if she needs it. You too, Master Jinn," he added, shyly.

"Tell Gree I appreciate the offer," Qui-Gon said, all serenity, layered on over not wanting me to be taken away, and his own worries about the Council. He doesn't often _worry_ as such, but this isn't really in the future - it's in the past and the present as well. "It would solve several difficulties if you could take Nasriel. Behave yourself, minx," he told me, offhand, but even with him blocking me out, I could tell he hated having to say it. Because you don't tell your kid to behave if they're going to be with you all along.

I headed into my room to collect my things, and shut the door so Obi-Wan and Foz wouldn't see me trying to not to cry. Since one of the cleaning droids had already returned my rucksack to my room, it was a straightforward case of tossing in my academic notebooks and a few ink-pencils, grabbing the subpoena papers before Qui-Gon saw them, and picking the rucksack up. Going back into the main room, I just about keeled over with grief; the scent of the muja oil was so strong, even more than what was in my hair anyway. All my life, that has been the smell of _everything is okay now_. But nothing was okay, and I was living in a nightmare where the air was so hard and heavy I couldn't breathe.

I stumbled across the room, not really looking where I was going, and ran into Qui-Gon, who put his arms around me and held me tight, with my head against his chest – which is where it comes to when we're both standing up, anyway.

"I'm safer here than I am anywhere else," I told Master Chosski-head Council Member Obi-Wan kriffing Kenobi. He had the grace to look embarrassed, but Qui-Gon ignored him, holding me out at arms' length, where he could see my face.

"Nasriel, the safest place for you to be is wherever the Force wills. That won't always be here, and right now, it seems to be with the Sentinels. I'll be around if you need me, but for now, go, and may the Force be with you."

So I went off with Foz, and he had to hold my arm, because my eyes were so blurry with tears I couldn't see where I was going. And Gree hugged me, and said she was sorry. I have Foz's bunk, and he's sleeping on the floor down the hall – with a couple guys called Jiron and Reseda. They're nice enough. They're all nice enough, but it isn't the same as being _home_ , with my _family_. With my _Master_.

The only good thing to come out of this, so far as I can see, is that I can go to court with Gree and Foz... day after tomorrow... and I don't have to bother Qui-Gon.

Not that I don't want to bother him. I wish he were around to be bothered.

I just want to go home.


	14. Chapter 14

The first person he has to explain to is Tahl, who has heard nothing since before they left Malastare. An eon's worth of complications have developed over just fourteen days.

Tahl has maintained the unnerving habit of 'looking' away from things or people that are annoying her, and calmly waits out the explanation, staring unseeing toward the balcony window. Her only response is, "I assume you know what I think of you at the moment."

"It can't be any worse than what I think of myself at the moment," Qui-Gon says ruefully.

"Don't try that on me, you know it doesn't work. All those years, Qui. _All those years_. And _now_ you decide to be noble and own up. What were you – no, forget it, you're inexplicable."

"Where to start? I gave Nasriel the comm to contact Dooku in case anything went wrong with Fett."

"Well, that _was_ sensible," the lady says tartly, words dripping with sarcasm. "You have forgotten to tell me about the accident along the way where _you lost what little common sense you had_."

It seems today is simply his day for accepting what is thrown at him, for he elects not to rise to Tahl's reproach. "I gather Nasriel realized that calling me from Slave One to foil Fett's plans of mayhem would be worse than foolish, so she did the only thing she could do under the circumstances, and called Dooku. And he... told her what we would all rather he hadn't."

"What _you_ would rather he hadn't. If you recall, _I_ was the one begging you to tell Yoda."

"He took her to meet the Shaman, Tahl. Nasriel's _sixteen_ – even at twice her age, I barely coped with that. And it's not as if she was mentally or emotionally stable to start with. He _used_ the hell she's been through, to make her believe she'd fallen to the Dark Side. We've never really had a chance to work through anything that's happened."

"Stop it, Qui. Stop making excuses. You had plenty of chance; you just didn't take it. I don't know if it _wouldn't_ be better for Nasriel if she was transferred." Although she has not cried tears for nearly four decades, Tahl still instinctively wipes her eyes when she is upset, and does so now. "Go away. I still love you, you know that – but this is a lot to process. Just go away."

Qui-Gon obediently goes away, to seek out the living, centering _green_ of the meditation gardens. Although he would prefer to go to Dex's cantina, and tap the Besalisk's remarkable network of contacts for information, Dex is missing... besides, the Council, in addition to stripping him of all official rank and handing down a formal censure, have imposed the further humiliation of forbidding him to leave the Temple precinct until further notice. Under ordinary circumstances, Qui-Gon would simply ignore the injunction, but Yoda rather more than hinted that Nasriel's future as his Padawan depends upon his compliance.

Toward evening, Feemor comes to find him, at the stone seat beside the waterfall in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. They have not been _Master and Padawan_ for a very long time – Qui-Gon was Knighted only a little ahead of Feemor, and, when the younger man's Master died, took over his training for the year or so that remained of his apprenticeship. They are more like brothers than like anything else.

"Thought we supposed to be were friends," Feemor greets him bluntly. "When were you planning to tell me about all this?"

"Probably never." They stand facing across the stone, which forms a kind of barrier. Neither makes any attempt to circumvent it. Barriers feel safer, at present.

"Mm. Explains why you still haven't. I had to worm it out of Kenobi. Fine way to find something out about your own Master – hearing it from the next Padawan but one." Feemor sighs heavily, and turns, shaking his head, to retrace his steps the way he came. "You're a coward, Jinn, you know that?" he calls back just before disappearing.

"What was I supposed to do?" Qui-Gon shouts after him, but there is no reply.

The Temple is always quiet for the disgraced. Scandals spread like dust in a windstorm, and everybody takes care to keep out of the way. Qui-Gon has plenty of time to think, through the gathering shrouds of a dusk that fades unnoticed behind heavy clouds. Long into the watches of the night, he paces the marble halls, passing, armored in an impenetrable shell of melancholy, in and out of the shadows cast by towering statues of great Jedi.

Wending his way homeward only as the moonless night unwillingly gives way to a sunless morning, he finds Tahl already gone, returned to her daily task of gathering information for mission briefings. Even in the darkest times, life goes on. Plo Koon is waiting for him, masked and inscrutable as ever.

"Do you have time to talk?" the Councilor asks, as if he does not already know Qui-Gon has _time_ immeasurable and nothing with which to fill it.

"Do you? Being so occupied with Council business?"

"I have time to listen," Plo decides.

"So apparently Obi-Wan has more important things to do than try to work out whether I'm a Sith." Qui-Gon can see the humor in this.

"Master Kenobi felt that it was not his place. And you know that if there was any _serious_ question of your being one of the Sith, you would be in a Force-blocked containment cell before you could say _Dark Side_."

"Why _is_ there no such 'serious question'?"

"Are you trying to convince me that there should be?" Plo returns, calm and calculating. "Let us be reasonable." Plo Koon's definition of _reasonable_ is different from Qui-Gon's; this _reasonable_ takes a long time, standing there in the corridor being carefully disregarded by every passer-by, because Qui-Gon does not want any fragment of this discussion inside his home. _Reasonable_ is a minefield, full of sharp questions that have spiny, dangerous answers. _Reasonable_ is exhausting, but, at last, even _reasonable_ ends, when Plo nods slowly, and asks one last question: _why now_?

"Why not?" His interrogator does not accept a question in lieu of an answer, so Qui-Gon says shortly, "Nasriel."

"Ah. Yes, children alter things, do they not? But I am curious: Obi-Wan, and even further back, Xanatos, did not prompt this extraordinary confession, yet Nasriel...?"

"Or more accurately, Dooku, who told Nasriel. If I had not informed the Council myself, she would have been forced to tell you, or else to keep the secret. Either way, she would have been in an impossible position. That particular difficulty simply didn't occur with any of the boys." He told Xanatos himself, on returning from Telos – and swore the boy to silence. But he is telling the truth: the _specific_ difficulty of Dooku's disclosure to Nasriel is a new one.

"Mm," is Plo's only response, non-committal to the end. "Thank you for your time, Qui-Gon."

It is still some hours before noon, and when Plo leaves, suddenly Qui-Gon cannot be bothered going back into the silent, empty quarters. Odd – usually he does not mind solitude, and can spend days or weeks alone without really noticing. Because it is _his choice_. Today is different – today his own company is stifling, smothering, but inescapable. Everybody he could possibly track down to while away time with is outside the Temple or... busy. He returns to the gardens, remaining there, doing nothing in particular, until nightfall. Tahl is working late, and it is past midnight when Qui-Gon finally gives up waiting on the quarters' balcony for her, and goes to bed.

He wakes, a moment or an hour later, _absolutely certain_ that for some inexplicable reason Nasriel has come home in the middle of the night. But the quarters are still silent and empty, and the last lingering whisper of the Padawan's presence hardens into a stabbing shard of isolation.

Crushing loneliness... apprehension for the coming day... apprehension about what the Council will decide... missing an absent Master... wondering why it's so noisy... Qui-Gon is surprised – the last two thoughts are patently _not his_. Getting up, thinking to go out to the balcony for some air, he only manages to take a few steps across the room before being plunged into a ludicrously, terrifyingly vivid nightmare.

Tahl is looking for him, stalking through a burning-colored jungle that falls abruptly into narrow, winding streets of teetering wooden tenements. He watches, from somewhere high up and slightly to the left, as she finds and walks trustingly towards someone who looks exactly like him; but the darkness in his strange double's eyes should have been a giveaway. Love, he reflects, is bare shades removed from hate... the doppelganger holds out one hand toward the wonderful bronze figure that is Tahl, and crimson lightning blazes through the street, meshing around her, stabbing at her eyes as she doubles over in pain...

Even through the confusion of the dream, Qui-Gon is perplexed: that is not how it happened at all. He should know – he was there, and will never be able to forget.

The lightning whirls up and tosses the nightmare down a vortex into a filthy cellar, where something – or some _things_ – _alive_ cower in the shadowed corners. The door at the top of a flight of rickety steps slams open, hurling a ray of harsh red light in a crisp line straight to the far wall, not illumining anything along the way. Following the light into the cellar is a man, with a black void where his face should be. The man reaches into the shadows and drags out a little girl cradling a kitten. He snatches the mewling animal from her and crushes it under his heel before leaving, closing the door very softly behind him and shutting out the light.

But it wasn't a kitten – it was a baby.

The faceless man again, wearing a judge's regalia and sitting high up, behind a desk. He bangs a gavel down on the desk and shouts something incomprehensible, but obviously frightening. At once, the nightmare collapses into seamless blackness. Qui-Gon is returned abruptly to his own quarters, reeling from the shock, and recognizing one – only one – image from the dream. The dead baby, lying in the slimy mess of its own pulverized brain, is something Nasriel saw during the months of her enslavement. One of the memories she showed him upon her return, when she needed him to understand why she is now afraid of the dark.

It was Nasriel's nightmare. Nasriel who misses her Master.

Qui-Gon absent-mindedly reaches up to tug at the leather cord of the stone charm, to remind himself it is still there... but it isn't. He gave it to Nasriel. Well. Taharat did warn him that it was a heartstone, a talisman reputed to link its wearer to whoever came before them – a homeworld superstition to which he never paid a great deal of attention. Either there really is something in the story, or else the Force works in ways more mysterious than he has yet guessed.

Dressing, and fetching his cloak as defense against the cold of the night, he traverses the echoing halls between his quarters and the Ninth Lower level where the transient Sentinels stay. A deeply unamused Gree Yarzakawula meets him at the lift-tube.

"Is Nasriel all right?" he asks her.

"You are aware that it is _third hour_?" Gree checks. "I thought not. She's fine. Go back to bed."

"Only I..." He changes tack, saying authoritatively, "I sensed a disturbance in the Force."

"Just a nightmare. I gave her some of the sedatives the healers prescribed for Foz's Padawan when we got back from clearing up that whole chizzk-storm. D'you know Nasriel talks in her sleep? By the sound of things, she was nightmare-ing about _you_ doing something horrific, and... murdering a baby came into it a bit later on. I'll wager you're the last person she'd want to see tonight. Go on, clear out."

"If she's still awake, tell her I came by."

Gree nods sleepily. "I will. May the Force be with you, Master Jinn." She adds, "Don't worry about Nasriel – we'll take good care of her. And if it's any comfort to you... nobody downstairs will believe you ever went beyond Grey."

"Force help me, Gree, it was _far_ beyond Grey. That's the plain truth." Qui-Gon manages to ignore the sympathy in the Sentinel's eyes. She feels barely older than Anakin – how could she understand that Falling does _hurt_? It hurts even more than trying to return.

But, "You're right," Gree says. "Force help you."


	15. Chapter 15

At first light, Qui-Gon slips back to the Sentinel level, inadvertently waking Tahl and causing her to curse him sleepily from her room. It is only in the lift-tube on the way down that he remembers that the Sentinel level follows so few of the same rules as the rest of the Temple that they may as well be on different planets. This is not going to be easy.

It's midwinter: the level is crowded, with most of the Sentinel children sleeping on the floor or sharing bunks. To save floor space in the overcrowded rooms, the narrow corridors are chaotic with the detritus of a few hundred nomadic lives – packs, some tightly strapped, some falling open and spilling books, spare clothes, candles, the odd pan or dented tin mug; a pair of boots; a battered meditation cushion he'd swear dates back to Dooku's days as a Sentinel. Only the slenderest necessary clearing remains down each passageway, but the clutter does, a little, relieve the oppressive institutional feel of the level, brought on by its worn, unpainted duracrete walls and floors, and rows of old-fashioned hinged doors.

Despite the soft buzz of sound produced by myriad sleepers and occasional whispered conversations, the hallways are deserted at this early hour, except for a very small Padawan of the feline H'Vong race, who regards him quizzically until he asks her if Nasriel is somewhere about. The Padawan shakes her head so emphatically that her whole body turns.

"Do you know where she is?"

"No. All gone. _All_ gone." Something is wrong with this child – she cannot be less than nine, because even Sentinels are not permitted to take Padawans younger than that, but she behaves with the bizarre blend of temerity and shyness that is more characteristic of children half that age. The girl suddenly startles at nothing, and darts away down one of the long, echoing corridors.

* * *

We slipped out of the quarters early, to get to the court complex in time. I was still drowsy from a bad night and from Corri's sedatives that Gree gave me to help me sleep, but I remember Foz explaining, on the way, what is going to happen. Because nobody knew I was there until a couple weeks ago, both the prosecution and defense lawyers want to meet me for depositions, which Foz described as 'asking a few questions to help them prepare stuff for the trial'. I don't want to answer a few questions. I want time to meditate on it, and release it, as I thought I'd done before Qui-Gon and I even left Coruscant. Seems like some things just don't want to be released.

* * *

Leaving the Sentinel quarters, Qui-Gon resorts to the least official and most efficient directory service in the Temple: the Archivist's assistant, Kijé Yenseh, a boy with a remarkable memory and a near-magical capacity for obtaining information. Undisputed darling of all the researchers in the Order, Kijé is also an old friend of Nasriel's. The usual difficulty is finding _him_.

Today, Kijé appears abruptly, the moment Qui-Gon crosses the threshold between the golden stone and warm sunlit halls of the Temple proper, and the cool blue light and dusty silence of the Archives. The boy carries a tall pile of paper-copy books, and offers the Archives equivalent of a bow: nodding respectfully.

"Master Jinn."

"Do you know where Nasriel is?"

The junior Archivist hesitates, hefting his pile of books to a less precarious angle. "I'm not entirely certain _right_ now, but I can find out, if you don't mind coming with me – I'm supposed to be working." Originally a Consular Padawan and precociously brilliant Niman form swordsman, Kijé was assigned to Madame Nu the Archivist when an accident in the course of a mission lost him most of one leg, leaving him with an inflexible prosthetic and a decidedly uneven gait. He can still cope with the books, though, and limps earnestly about his business of bringing order.

Qui-Gon modifies his pace to remain beside Kijé, and they proceed together along the towering rows of shelves. Although this is rarely a densely populated area of the Temple, there are still enough Jedi about – reading, writing, talking softly to each other – that the Master notices an oddity: all of them, without exception, avoid looking at him and Kijé, and those who are already standing move casually away. Kijé glances up at him, green eyes dancing with wicked amusement.

"I wondered how long it would take you to notice. Funny, isn't it, how everyone avoids people they see as unfortunate? I've had plenty of time on this, I'm _obvious_ with every move I make. There are two key reasons – in your case, three. One: a subconscious fear that misfortune is contagious. Two: in the more compassionate, fear of saying the wrong thing, and so avoiding having to say anything. And three: they know what the Council's down on you for, and they're trying to work out if it's true."

"And you apparently think it isn't?"

"I prefer to suspend judgement until the rumors die down and I've got a chance of getting accurate information," Kijé replies. "But I've got _years_ of data already. On everyone," he adds consolingly. By now they are at the end of the Archives hall, a place Qui-Gon rarely goes. Kijé shifts his burden to free one hand, and keys in a code to a door hidden in the shadow of a bookshelf.

Inside the small storeroom thus accessed, closely packed boxes reach to the ceiling and stacks of loose books cover the floor. The wall in one corner, while free of boxes, is papered with fluttering notes pinned to the plaster. Neatly placing his pile of books in an open box and bending to study a piece of flimsi close to the floor, Kijé frowns.

"Padawan Threeb, you said? You... place me in a very difficult position, Master Jinn." He extracts the sheet of flimsi, which even in the dim light of the storeroom Qui-Gon can see carries the Council seal and yesterday's date at its head, and flattens it out against a box so that the Master can read it.

 _Attn: Kijé Yenseh. It has come to the Council's attention that you are on friendly terms with Padawan Nasriel Threeb. Due to circumstances that will not be disclosed to you, the Council finds it prudent to inform you that Padawan Threeb's whereabouts and activities are no longer of concern to Master Jinn, effective from now until further notice._ The brusque memo cuts off, and continues in handwriting: _That means that when he comes to ask where she is – which he will! – you are to say nothing_. Qui-Gon notices, betrayed but unsurprised, that the hand is unmistakably Obi-Wan's.

"So you see," Kijé murmurs, "I'm not allowed to tell you that Nasriel is at the Central Courts with Foz and Gree, or that they expect to be back sometime this evening, or that I _doubt_ anything terribly important is happening today, because Gree and Foz's Padawans are still in the Temple instead of over there with them."

"The _Central Courts_? Why –"

"I'm sorry I can't help you, Master Jinn," Kijé cuts in sharply, turning to look out into the Archives. Madame Nu is coming.

"Thank you for your time, anyway," Qui-Gon says. "And if you learn anything else..."

"I'll be not-allowed to tell you that as well," the Archivist's assistant grins. "It's fine, I already know your callsign."

* * *

I've met with the prosecution lawyers – they call it _deposing_. Cold little room off in a corner of the court complex – long glass table, no windows, smells of cheap new carpet. At the outset, they reminded me that, as a minor, I had the right to have my 'legal guardian' present... I knew. I also knew it wasn't going to happen, and I was on my own. One lawyer asked if there was a reason I was choosing to do this alone, because most kids he deals with _definitely_ want their parents there. I made something up, I can't remember what.

It wouldn't have been too bad, I guess, if I was okay with strangers asking me questions I wouldn't want to answer even if _Qui-Gon_ were asking them. And it would have been easier if the lawyers had understood that six months multiplied by however-many horrible things happening every single day is a total I can't work out even roughly. Because I can't remember how many _however-many_ is – one thing blurs into another when it's _that much_ over _that long_. I had to keep telling them _I'm guessing here; I don't actually know_. And they didn't understand how in the name of the Seven Sages of Kal'Shebbol I could _not know_. 

Local law officers interviewed the other captives involved as soon as possible, and most of them have been back with their families for months now. I was with the Altistians, in limbo, for two months, because _no way_ I could go back to the Temple sixteen years old and five months pregnant and cope with it. The baby died, which in a lot of ways was a relief; I went home, and I thought that would be that. And then all the Sith chizzk, and... I'm not coping.

When the lawyers decided they'd heard enough for now – one of them had to leave partway through, and came back looking as if she'd been sick – I found Gree, and asked, if they had all the interview transcripts from all the others, why did they need me? Apparently, as a Jedi, I have good credibility as a witness. And Gree said it's _as a Jedi_ that I'm here. Because I'm contributing to getting justice for the other victims, and because justice matters. Even though I'm only a kid and all I want to do is forget.

* * *

Late in the afternoon, Gree calls Qui-Gon, makes one incredibly brief request, and hangs up before he can reply.

"Can you contrive to be in the gardens, at the stone seat by the waterfall, in an hour? Any excuse will do." No excuse will also do: nobody cares where he is, and the waterfall is as logical a place as any other for an officially non-existent Jedi Master to be.

At sunset in winter, there is a particular moment when a particular ray of sunlight pierces the foliage of the gardens, and, in sliding down the sky, slowly caresses the whole height of the waterfall. Qui-Gon happens to know that the gardens' design centers on this peculiarity. Just as the sunbeam begins to gild the spray at the cataract's base, tossing rainbows high above the pool, Nasriel comes running across the grass – in flagrant violation of the rules – to fling herself, breathless, into his arms.

"Foz is stalling for me downstairs and Kijé's promised to cover another ten minutes if anyone asks, so I've got a whole quarter-hour," she reports triumphantly.

"Yes, Kijé said he wasn't allowed to tell me you were at the courts – what's this about?"

The Padawan shrugs dismissively. "Oh... they caught the slavers and stuff and they're having the trial here because it's easier, and they want me to testify. So I had to go and talk to the prosecution lawyers today and the defense lawyers tomorrow, so they can work out how to use what I've got to say, to build their case."

"I do know how trials work, minx."

"Then why'd you ask? Anyway," says Nasriel, firmly changing the subject, with a brittle exuberance he doesn't trust, "how was your day?"

"I spent most of it looking for you. How long ago did you find out about the trial?"

"Um... when we got home. I didn't tell you because you have so much else to think about, and... It's _fine_ , I'm _fine_." Her shoulders slump, and the exuberance shatters. "I don't want to do tomorrow, Master. Today was lousy, and that was only the prosecution, they _want_ to believe me. And – they said I could have my _guardian_ there if I wanted – moral support or something – but I couldn't." Nasriel is clinging to him, as to an anchor in a storm, breathing with the shuddering gasps of stifled sobs. "I can't do this, I can't do it, I'm a bad Jedi, but I _can't_."

"Being vulnerable does not make you a bad Jedi. Nasriel, listen. Of course you can't do this. Nobody can. But nobody can do what you've already done, either. And you are not alone – the Force is with you, always."

The Padawan nods, still hesitant, but in some measure comforted. "I – thanks, Master. I wanted to come home tonight but – it's okay, I know that won't happen. Can I – can I call you tomorrow, when the deposition's done? Would that be a pain?"

"Oh, of course. Insurmountable," deadpans Qui-Gon, and Nasriel smiles crookedly. "Minx, what exactly do you think I'll be doing all day? _Waiting for you to call_. I promise. Go on now, we're out of time."

"I'm not a victim," Nasriel asserts, going to leave. "I'm a _survivor_."

"You are indeed that, Padawan mine."


	16. Chapter 16

Nasriel calls just two hours before midnight, and at least four hours after Qui-Gon first began to worry. Trial depositions _do not_ normally take this long. He answers his comm at the first ring.

"Nasriel, finally. Well, how did it go?"

"I – it was – Master –" The last word dissolves into a shuddering gasp, and then she is weeping, on the brink of hysteria. Though she is still trying to talk, she is, literally, incomprehensible.

"Shh, Nasriel... it's all right; calm down, then tell me what happened."

Abruptly, Gree comes on the line. "Master Jinn? Sorry, I know it's late... it'll be hours before they finish with me and Foz, but if you don't mind, I'll bring the kid home and she can spend the night at your place – better that than keeping her hanging around here. Is that all right?"

" _Yes_ , Gree, that is _fine_. That is more than fine; I will see you soon, now put Nasriel back on. Please," he remembers, a moment too late.

As soon as the Padawan has her comlink back, she starts explaining again, tearful and uneven. "They were – asking all sorts of – _horrible_ questions! I _told_ you I couldn't do it – and –" A slimy noise halfway between a sniff and a gulp. "That's only a _deposition_ ; we stopped about five times because it was getting too much for me, how am I going to cope with a _trial_? They can ask anything..."

"Nasriel Threeb," Qui-Gon interrupts sternly, "you are a Padawan of the Jedi Order, and I have seen you deal calmly with much more terrible animals than _lawyers_. Center yourself. Focus on the present moment. What is happening _right now_?"

"It's not the lawyers that bother me, it's the _past_ ," the Padawan snips, but takes a deep breath and... focuses on the present moment. "We – I'm with Gree," she continues, almost in a gasp, but now only breathing too hard and too fast, rather than sobbing. "We're walking down a corridor toward where she parked her speeder. We're passing the courtroom doors. They're open, and some of the lawyers are huddled around talking to the judges. There's going to be a jury in tomorrow, and a bailiff is checking their box to make sure there's nothing there that shouldn't be."

"Good. Have they let you look around the courtroom and see where you're going to be?" The mechanics of a situation are easier to talk about and harder to emote about than apprehensions of things that might happen. Many are the times Qui-Gon has talked one of his Padawans back almost to serenity, by dint of mere distraction. After all, the _present moment_ can only ever contain an instant's worth of problems.

"Yeah – yeah, I've seen that, and Foz had some time to explain about cross-examination and stuff. We're at the speeder now."

"Keep talking. You don't want to distract Gree's driving by breaking out the waterworks again. Tell me about what you can see straight to your right." During the rest of the half-hour it takes to drive back to the Temple, Nasriel describes two traffic accidents, all eight of the speeders that, at different times, are in front of her, dozens of holobillboards, and a very vivid point of light she can see directly overhead and _insists_ is a star (although her Master openly suspects it of being a geostationary satellite).

Qui-Gon tells her, in return, about the Saalisan riyo-tree saplings that have just been planted in the gardens, about the few buds of the potted snowdrift shrub on the balcony that have opened, revealing the fluffy white edges of the flowers, and about his brief visit with Master Yoda this morning. He does _not_ tell her that he and Yoda played sabaac, with information by way of stakes, or that he lost every single hand, much to the Grand Master's delight. He also does not tell Nasriel that Kijé Yenseh offered to hack into the Central Court surveillance systems to check that she was all right, or that he politely declined the offer.

When the background sound of the engine jolts to a stop, Nasriel's voice, asking inane questions about the riyo trees, suddenly becomes shakier, on reaching the Temple where other Jedi can see her so obviously tear-stained and emotionally wobbly. Qui-Gon hears Gree telling the girl not to break up now, so close to home, and the link abruptly cuts out. He uses all of the five minutes this gives him, in checking that Nasriel's room is tidy and her bed made, locating the teacups these four weeks out of use, and turning on the electric kettle that Obi-Wan so strongly disapproves of as uncivilized. _It is practical, Obi-Wan: practicality is as worthy as tradition_ , is his usual placid response.

Voices outside in the hall; tap-tapping of a code as trembling fingers fly over the keypad, too uncentered to fling the door open with a Force-driven flick of the wrist. Nasriel all but tumbles into the room, and Gree catches her arm.

"Steady on, kiddo. Um... Master Jinn? I'll be back about eighth hour tomorrow for her. Hopefully before Kenobi notices she's not downstairs."

"Thank you, Gree. A thousand times."

Gree laughs, the suddenly sheepish usual response of a Sentinel to thanks or compliments. "Nah, I don't have time for that chizzk. Got to go – may the Force be with you."

The instant the door is closed, "Are we going to get in trouble?" asks Nasriel. She is shivering, arms wrapped tightly in front of her, and her long black hair hangs untidily, half-covering her face.

"More importantly, are you cold?" Her slow, emphatic nod, the gesture bearing an eerie echo of the strange H'Vong child in the Sentinel quarters two days ago, is the only reply. "Kettle's on," Qui-Gon observes, going to turn up the thermostat. "I was going to make tea. Would you rather talk – or find something unrelated to do?"

After a solemn pause for thought, "Talk, please," Nasriel decides. "Today was vile." Not waiting for any further prompting, she curls up on the sofa, knees drawn up to her chest, arms firmly around them, and begins. "They asked if... I was _sure_ I'd been raped. If I was _sure_ I'd been tortured. _Sure_? I'm sure. I see the scars every day... I _remember_ , when all I want to do is be normal again. I remember being held down and –" She breaks off, shaking her head, mouth working soundlessly at words unsayable. "They asked if I was sure any of this had happened at all and it wasn't just a hallucination – I told them to look at the kriffing holos and then they dropped the subject." Her head falls forward, and her shoulders lurch with the force of strangled, gasping sobs. "What do you _do_ with people like that?"

"Endure them." Coming to sit beside her, Qui-Gon holds his Padawan close, rocking gently as if soothing a youngling; tamping down the fury rising in his soul. She is damp – with tears and mucus both – and slimy, and disheveled, and a dozen different kinds of damaged, and he loves her regardless. "You are in an uncivilized mess."

"Yeah," Nasriel agrees readily, face pressed against him, voice muffled. "I'll go clean up." She disappears into the 'fresher room, and ten minutes later, in a waft of halsamint-scented steam, half-opens the door to peer into the main room, wet hair dripping on the floor. "Can I have my pajamas, please? Top drawer."

Qui-Gon stifles a smile when she reappears, scrubbed clean, wrist-thick plait still waterlogged, clad in fuzzy brown flannel pajamas and looking about twelve years old. Nasriel grins, with just barely a hint of wistfulness.

"Like old times, isn't it?" She tugs at her trailing Padawan braid, visible only now the rest of her hair is secured back. "I – had to undo it a couple days ago, it was all gritty... and... you know it plaits in three because –" Suddenly choking up, she comes close enough for him to see the braid.

"Because _Master, Padawan, the Force – these are one_." A brief swell of pathos hits him: rather than the usual tight, even, three-part weave, Nasriel's braid is fashioned into a sloppy twist, two strands wound together. "You really felt that much alone, minx?"

The Padawan nods. "We can fix it, though, right?"

"Of course." He pauses, hand hovering over the row of jars in the tiny cupboard. "Hot chocolate rather than tea?"

"That would be very nice," the girl says.

So Nasriel sips a mug of creamy hot chocolate, sitting quietly on the sofa beside Qui-Gon as he carefully smoothes out the damp jet-black strands, divides by three, and begins to braid.

Master, Padawan, the Force. Teacher, student, wisdom. Beginning, middle, end. Past, present, future. A three-fold cord is not easily broken, and a Jedi apprentice's braid is a fine but durable link binding the generations together, Master to Padawan, through thousands of years... _back and back and back._

Tying off the end of the braid, he tugs it gently, and Nasriel runs her fingers appreciatively down its length.

"Much better." In the mug, powdery dregs of chocolate slosh about, stirred by the Padawan's fidgeting. "How late is Master Yoda usually up?"

"And why do you expect me to know that?"

"You know most things." She shrugs, impatiently dismissing her Master's fallibility as irrelevant. "Because if he's still awake, we could go and ask if you'd be allowed to come to the court tomorrow. They let people in the spectators' gallery, you know."

"You're testifying tomorrow?"

"I might be. I'm third in the official trial order – it depends how long they take with the others and how many surprises there are. Foz said they'd likely want more than one day with me. Being it's such a big case and I know the most about it."

"I'll ask. And if I'm not allowed, I'll come anyway."

She nods, relieved. "I thought you might." She is still stroking her braid, twisting the sable brush of its tip. In the past, Xanatos once succumbed to temptation and tried painting with the end of his braid – only to find out too late that cobalt is a permanent pigment. In the present, Nasriel shivers convulsively, almost spilling her drink.

"Are you all right? Your cloak's in your room if you want it."

"Just cold," the Padawan murmurs, drifting across the room for her cloak, apparently forgetting halfway what she is doing, and changing direction to sit on the floor staring out the window.

"Minx... _cloak_." Going to fetch it, the Master drapes it around her, and joins her on the floor. "What's so interesting out there?"

"Snowdrifts," enunciates Nasriel, and promptly falls asleep, tumbling sideways against Qui-Gon, her overlarge cloak – the smallest size the quartermaster's stores had – puddling around her on the wooden floor. He cannot help being concerned: the last time Nasriel was this lethargic, and this illogically cold, was a little over a month ago now, and it preceded a soaring fever and an anxious week when her very survival was uncertain. Now is not the best time for a reprise.

"Nasriel – Padawan – wake up."

"Mm." She doesn't exactly _wake_ , so Qui-Gon pulls her unceremoniously to her feet and escorts her to her room. While tidy, it is, he notices, very dusty, with a stuffy smell and an air of abandonment.

"You – bed. I will go and talk to Master Yoda."

"Mm-hm." The Padawan spills forward onto the blankets, making no particular attempt to be orthodoxly _in_ bed, and Qui-Gon shakes his head in amused exasperation, leaving her to sort it out herself – or not. _Not_ seems more likely.

He comes back shortly after midnight, after a trying but ultimately successful interview with Master Yoda – who, fortunately, was awake – to find Tahl sitting on the edge of Nasriel's bed, and Nasriel snugly tucked under the heavy blankets, sound asleep.

"You are hopeless with children," Tahl notifies him, the moment the door opens. "And luckier than you deserve. And by the presence of you, you're exhausted. Go to bed, you're making _me_ tired."

"I know; leave her be and go to bed yourself." And very shortly, there is peace in the quarters. At least until morning.


	17. Chapter 17

When they get to the courthouse in the morning, a bailiff tells Nasriel she may wait wherever she likes until _the court calls Nasriel Threeb_. She decides that she likes to sit with Qui-Gon in the gallery, leaning forward against the railing to study the courtroom below. Gree and Foz's Padawans, respectively a sullen Barabel boy named Halwaro Calaver, and the H'Vong girl who Qui-Gon met in the Sentinel quarters when looking for Nasriel, join them in the gallery a few minutes later. The girl is called Corri; as he thought, and as Halwaro puts it, she is _not quite right in the head_ after all she has seen during the breaking up of the slaving ring. Corri is nine.

As usual in chambers of the Galactic Central Courts, the judges' bench stands, high and imposing in dark wood, with the jury box in front of it, to ensure that the jurors are not distracted from the case unfolding before them. Across a narrow area of polished duracrete floor, which serves as the lawyers' grandstand and podium, the prosecution and defense each have their own little corral, separated by a walkway. The witness box is between the judges' bench and the prosecution territory, and the dock between the bench and the defense: witnesses testify face-to-face with the accused, though at a few meters' distance.

Quiet and attentive during both sides' opening statements, Nasriel becomes visibly anxious when Gree is called as the first witness. The prosecuting attorney, with the air of a showman exhibiting freaks, has Gree explain how she and Foz first realized what was going on in the cantina backrooms of Karazak and other worlds: a local licensed bordello, specializing in 'barely legal', and under discreet Sentinel investigation in an unrelated matter, complained to the authorities that 'the cantina crowd' was undercutting them with younger girls and lower prices. Sidetracking their investigation, the Sentinels found half a dozen unfortunates confined in the cellar of the cantina, and, when confronted with an active lightsaber and a hostile Jedi Knight, the owner of the cantina confessed all he knew about the other perpetrators. Gree found Nasriel, and ten others of various ages, in the fourth dungeon that she personally searched.

The attorney also leads Gree through a nauseatingly detailed description of the extent of the criminal operation (far greater than Nasriel had supposed from inside it), the condition of the rescued captives, and the responses of the defendants arrested at the scene. Prosecution, satisfied that the horror of Gree's account is indelibly imprinted on the collective imagination of the jury, steps back and bows slightly to the assembled personification of justice on the bench.

"I tender the witness."

Defense is quieter, lacking his counterpart's ostentation, but making up for it in cross-examination with an unsettling habit of making a few innocent inquiries and one very pointed one, all in the same gentle tone. It is disarming, and that is its point, but Gree, despite her relative youth, is at least as experienced in veiled speech and telling the _exact_ truth as the lawyer is at asking probing questions. Cross-examination becomes a battle of urbanity between the Bothan lawyer and the Rattatakian Sentinel.

"Jedi Yarzakawula," one volley begins, nearly four hours – and a recess – after Gree first took the witness stand, "do you mean to tell us that you and your colleague acted on the word of an organization that you were investigating – for a misdemeanor, I think you said?"

"We acted according to the prompting of the Force... though in most cases I would trust a courtesan over a lawyer for accuracy of information." Gree's blue eyes widen in an appearance of innocence.

"This is neither the time nor place to air your personal prejudices," Defense objects.

"If I cannot express my honestly held views in the Galactic Central Courts, perhaps you can advise me where else I am free to state that which I believe to be the truth?"

"No more questions," sighs the defeated Defense, returning to his corral. Leaving the stand, Gree slips up to the gallery, and narrowly escapes Halwaro's bone-crushing hug.

Prosecution leaps to his feet the moment Defense is off the floor. "The next in the trial order is Foreyata Ferens –" in the gallery, Foz flashes Gree a too-bright grin "...but we'd like to save his testimony for later and go on to the next witness." After a brief silence for effect, "Prosecution calls Nasriel Threeb," the lawyer booms.

As the words echo around the courtroom, Nasriel slips her hand into Qui-Gon's, and squeezes, the wordless gesture begging for reassurance.

"You're safe now, remember?" complies he, drily.

"Mm." She hesitates. "I'm going to be right opposite those –"

"Don't look at them. Look at the lawyers, look at the judges – or look at me. I'll still be up here." Nasriel nods, and goes down the gallery steps into the courtroom. Qui-Gon is briefly amused to see Prosecution conduct a double-take when she comes up behind him: most Jedi can and do move almost silently, which tends to disturb the equilibrium of non-Jedi who can neither sense nor hear them coming. When Nasriel is on the witness stand, sworn in, and Prosecution gears up to ask his first question, the situation is suddenly less amusing.

"So, Padawan Threeb – it is Padawan, isn't it? I thought so – could you please explain... what happened? Begin at the beginning. Take your time."

Nasriel starts in a whisper, head bowed, eyes closed. It takes a moment for Qui-Gon to notice, but she is clutching at the stone charm that once belonged to her mother. _That won't help anything, Padawan_ , he wants to say. _Trust in the Force_.

"Speak up," growls the chief justice. "We can't hear you."

"I –" Nasriel swallows hard, and starts over a little louder, explaining about why she had been at Laerdocia in the first place, and how she had been kidnapped and auctioned off.

"And do you recognize any of those kidnappers in this courtroom?" Prosecution asks, a little nastily, considering that he must have realized by now that Nasriel does _not_ want to look up.

"Yeah." She doesn't raise her head or open her eyes, but counts carefully across the dim shadows Qui-Gon knows she can 'see' in the Force, in the large pen of the dock. Probably she finds it easier to recognize auras than faces – but either way, in a court of law, identification is identification.

"Fourth row. Fourth, fifth, and sixth from left. Them."

Prosecution is puzzled. "Are you sure? I don't know about all your Jedi stuff, darlin'; just look, can't you?"

"I'm sure it was them. Actually... I recognize all these people." To the unprofessional astonishment of Prosecution, and the perceptible discomfort of Defense and his colleagues, Nasriel proceeds to explain her way across the front row of the dock – some ten people of assorted species – giving a brief account of each one's predilections and peccadilloes. She is amazingly calm and collected, betrayed only by the occasional stutter, but does not once look up, or alter her tone from a flat murmur just audible by the witness stand microphone.

"Those two in the middle are the Thrifty Twins – all the girls who were imprisoned with me called them that – they used to save themselves some credits by... by renting one girl between them. At the same time. I don't know what the slavers charged; just that it wasn't enough to warrant that kind of thing." Partway through the tally of the third row, Prosecution, who has been quietly squirming for the past hour or so, calls a halt. Court has been in session for eight hours, two of them fully occupied with Nasriel's testimony.

"Your honors, can we adjourn until tomorrow? I have many more questions for this witness even before cross-examination." Prosecution does not mention that the jury are exhausted, the judges are fed up, _he_ is tired enough for it to be obvious from the gallery, and the witness is perfectly capable of shocking the court for at least another four hours on his questions alone. He also does not mention – because he does not know – that the witness in question has been staving off a mild mental breakdown for some time now. Qui-Gon knows.

"Court adjourned," the chief justice agrees. "Reconvene at ninth hour tomorrow, to continue with Padawan Threeb's testimony."

During the slow process of clearing the dock and the jury box, while nobody inside the main body of the courtroom can go anywhere, but the comlink-jamming signal covering the court is switched off, Obi-Wan calls, and Qui-Gon retreats to the hallway to talk in peace.

"Where are you?" the Councilor asks. "I've been looking all over the Temple."

"Why don't you ask Kijé in the Archives?" There is a faint click, as of teeth colliding, jaws snapped irritably together; then a silence.

It is in a milder tone that Obi-Wan eventually replies. "Yes, I'm sorry about that, Master."

"Are you sorry you abused your privilege as a member of the Council and ordered Kijé to keep information from someone who had a right to that information, or are you sorry I found out?"

"I didn't abuse anything," retorts Obi-Wan. "I acted in Nasriel's best interest as I perceived it at the time, which you may recall is my prerogative as a member of the High Council." He adds a moment later, "I admit that I now realize my perception was flawed."

"You were wrong," Qui-Gon translates the comment from Council-ese to Basic.

"I was. I apologize."

"And I accept your apology. What did you really call about, Obi-Wan?"

"Fett's found Komari. Although he called to tell me so, that isn't very helpful, as he insists that _Master Jinn contracted the search_ , and that he has to talk to you. So... where are you?"

"I'm at the Central Courts to provide moral support for my Padawan, who is acting as a witness in one of the most scandalous trials of the century." Obi-Wan's only reply is a peculiar sputtering sound, indicative of extreme surprise unwisely combined with tea. "The Council needs to work on communication," Qui-Gon observes. "Yoda has already sanctioned my being here."

"Right. Yes. Can you go to the cantina next to the downtown spaceport? Now? Nasriel may as well come along too." At this point, Qui-Gon cuts off the call: the Sentinels have suddenly materialized on the stairway down from the gallery, and Nasriel is at the courtroom door, glancing around for an exit that doesn't involve passing through the crowds of HoloNet reporters, droidcams, and curious bystanders who couldn't get a place in the courtroom but are still madly interested. There isn't one.

And then Gree is beside him, arms folded, scowling; or perhaps that's just her default expression. "Was that important?"

"Yes. Something's happened; Nasriel and I have to go downtown. Shall we –"

"No, you don't have to drop us at the Temple. I'll call 'Roni to pick us up – might even dodge the crowds. Nice going, Blue," she adds as Nasriel joins them.

"So, that was amusing," says Nasriel, trying very hard to sound as if she means it. "It's nineteenth hour, Master, can we go home?"

"We are going downtown to meet... someone I had hoped you wouldn't have to meet." Outside, it is dark and raining, but it takes a lot to deter reporters, and the sidewalk in front of the court complex is crowded with them. "Back door, I think."

Nasriel doesn't reply at once, because law-enforcement officers are escorting a few of the higher-profile accused in the case out of the court, and she is watching curiously. Having easily obtained bail, these defendants are not held in the general cells of the prison; the officers are not there to guard them, but to keep the reporters away from them.

"Almost makes you want to be a perp, doesn't it?" Foz observes bitterly. Corri stands huddled close to him, tugging at his sleeve, and he leans down so she can whisper. "Yeah, I don't like those guys either, kid. The law screwed up here."

In the car, on the way downtown to meet Fett, Nasriel studies the sky, and finally grins, pointing to a bright speck of light overhead. "There it is. The star." She notices Qui-Gon's skepticism, and says quietly, "Let it be a star, Master, whatever it really is. There are days when you need one. And anyway… I _know_ there are real stars somewhere. And if there are, that means there's hope somewhere too – real hope – even if we can't see it just now."

"A symbolic star," muses Qui-Gon. "Well, if that helps you, I suppose it's all right. Just remember that there is always hope, stars or no stars."

"I still don't know who Komari Vosa is," Nasriel reminds him. "Except that Obi-Wan said the Council thought I was like her."

"Komari Vosa – it doesn't make much difference now. She was Dooku's apprentice; he took her on because she was good, but moody, and he wanted to change her. He likes changing people, not often for better. But even at the end, Komari was very much herself – aggressive and brilliant. The Council eventually realized they couldn't change her, even Dooku couldn't change her… anger ran in her very blood. There was also the issue of her being… not openly – but obviously – infatuated with Dooku. It made things awkward, to put it mildly. They told her – _Dooku_ told her – she couldn't be Knighted, not then, not ever, and she left. Taken by the Bando Gora within the month. It was just over a year ago that anyone in the Temple found out what happened to her – Dooku told me about it, that first time you met him."

"Did you know her?" asks the Padawan. "Why's she like me?"

"Obi-Wan was referring to the question of infatuation. I think he's wrong."

"Yeah," Nasriel assures him.

"Oh, thank you." Despite the serious nature of this conversation, Qui-Gon is cautiously enjoying it. It has been a long, long time since he felt it safe to _joke around_ with Nasriel. Even irony is a great leap forward, under their new standards of normality.

"No… you know what I mean. I love you, but I don't _need_ you. If something happened to you, or if we were separated again, I'd cope. I'd get by."

"A Master's goal is expendability: if you _needed me_ , I would not be doing my duty by you."

"I still like you very much," the girl says, comfortingly. "Even though you're driving like Anakin. And even though I had a total chizzk-storm of a day and I'm pretty sure you don't care."

"I'm sorry, Nasriel. I tell you what: we'll be driving for nearly an hour, so you can tell me at least some of what's on your mind. Or have I already used up all my bad-Master strikes this week?" The system of 'strikes' has never, does not, and will never exist. Xanatos tried it with Bruck and ran into so much grief on the very first day that the whole family abandoned the idea at once.

Nasriel laughs, but she sounds tired. "Never."


	18. Chapter 18

_The Council sent Xan and me to Sempidal to clear up – two-week posting, they said. Long enough to tidy away any pockets of Sep activity Obi-Wan and Ben might have missed, and to arrange the command handover from Council to regular army. All in all, very_ basic.

 _Since we got here last week, that's exactly what we've been doing. Going out in the field, removing a nest of clankers or a gun emplacement, and then slogging ahead to the next place and doing it all over again. Sleeping on the ground, rolled in cloaks – for us – and blankets – for the troopers – and coming back to the base every few days to sleep under canvas for a change. By a large margin, this is the most boring mission I've ever been assigned, and I figure Bi-An had nothing to do with it – it's just Master Windu trying to be kind by giving us a quiet beat. I've been repaying that, in my own way, by practicing flying: by now, I can sweep through a pack of two dozen battle droids without touching the ground once._

 _When I was with Qui-Gon, we always used to take the missions that nobody else wanted because they were on hot, dry, sun-parched worlds. I loved it – as much as anything, I loved that my Master took the trouble to draw postings to places I could cope with. But... now Qui-Gon has gone off with Dooku, and I'm at Sempidal. Sempidal's cursed with unpredictable thick fog, and filthy weather in between. Long nights, with heavy clouds and heavier rain. Short, wet days, with filtered sunlight like cotton candy: pretty, but not good for much. And cold, cold,_ cold.

 _It smells of mud here – mud and fuel smoke and old death. The stink of the earth muffles anything else I might have picked up. I'm sitting under a slowly oozing canvas tent, trying to warm my hands around a cup of hot but insipid caf that tastes of water and smells of_ burnt, _listening to the troopers argue and the rain splash thickly into the viscous soup of muck that passes for ground out here._

 _In the middle of last night, I woke up to a startlingly luminous, consuming fear, and a whisper of surprise, because while I knew it wasn't mine, it looked – rather, felt – as if I ought to recognize it. I lay awake, listening to the rain, for a few minutes, before realizing I did recognize it; its proper owner just hadn't been around for a long time, and had changed some in the meantime. Rolling off my camp-cot, I crept across the tent to talk to Xanatos._

 _"Xan?"_

 _"Uhn-hmm."_

 _"DuCrion, wake up. Qui-Gon's in trouble. I promised him that when this happened I'd come find him. Xan?"_

 _"Okay," he mumbled. "Where are we going?"_

 _"I don't know," I said slowly. "I don't think Qui-Gon knows where he is either."_

 _"Well, what did you see? That's good for a start, at least."_

 _"See? Xan, I didn't_ see _anything... what do you mean?"_

 _"You said Qui-Gon wa_ s _in trouble. I assumed you were basing that conclusion on some form of data. What – did – you – see?"_

 _"Nothing." While I was dimly beginning to understand what Xan meant, it was cold, and dark, and I was tired and hungry and agitated. "I just know, okay? You don't do this to Bi-An when he tells you something."_

 _"Bi-An is thirty-six, and usually has the decency to tell us as much as he can rather than talking nonsense about not seeing anything. I mean, if it was too dark to make out any detail, say so, but –"_

 _"Xan. It wasn't dark. There just wasn't anything."_

 _Sitting up suddenly, Xan regarded me with new interest. "You can't see," he breathed. "Me, Bi‑An, Qui-Gon, Feemor, Bruck – Ani, I guess – we can all_ see _things coming. Sometimes it's fuzzy or dim, but we can see it. You..."_

 _"Please, Xan, I know because_ he told me. _And he was... different. Wronger."_

 _"We have to finish our posting before we can even think of moving on, kiddo. If the old man decides to tell you anything else, let me know." And he rolled over and started snoring again. I couldn't sleep anymore, and I slipped out into the mud and cold drizzle of the camp. A few stars gleamed through a rare break in the clouds, and I stood staring up at them, wondering where in the whole wide Galaxy I was supposed to be, until the trooper on sentry duty sent me back to bed._

 _Xan called home this morning, and by a crazy stroke of chance, connected into the middle of a family conference at Bi-An's place. Ben was home from the medbay, Ani was tinkering with something... it was nice. I wish I could have been there. Although I guess everybody must have been talking about something before we called, Xan just jumped right in and told Bi-An about what I'd said last night._

 _"Nightmare, Sriel," Bruck commented loftily from out of camera range. "We understand you miss him, but... move on."_

 _"I believe her," Anakin murmured, then appeared suddenly in the holo and said it again, harder, sharper. "I didn't have much more than that to go on when I came to get you from Jabiim, Master. I trust Sriel to know what she's talking about. I owe a lot to Qui-Gon too," he told me. "Let me know what you need me to do."_

 _"Are you listening to this?" exploded Xan. "Kenobi? This is crazy. Qui-Gon was given a choice; he chose to leave. Now the kids want to go after a Sith. Obi-Wan, listen to me. You can stop this."_

 _Looking thoughtfully from me to Anakin, Obi-Wan said quietly, "I'm not so sure I can. You two – Anakin, Nasriel – if you're certain you're doing the right thing, then... do it, and I'll tell the Chancellor it was on my orders."_

Later: _Two-week posting, hah. We were here a week before I had the first... dream? Wrong word. The first time I knew I had to go and find Qui-Gon, and find him soon. And we've been here two more weeks since that. Ten days wasted on droid-wrecking and petty command squabbles – I'm running out of time, I know that much. And the wet weather's taking its toll on me. When we got here and I saw the terrain and climate, I told Xan I couldn't stick it more than a few days. It's been fifteen so far, and my whole body's on the verge of deciding to quit, one piece at a time. I'm eating more than usual and still always hungry. Persistent low-grade headache that ramps ups when I move – and I'm still dealing with troops of clankers every day, still practicing flying, so... persistent ramped-up headache. Always freezing cold, even when I'm sitting so close to the space heater I can smell my hair singeing._

 _Can't sleep. I guess the dreams don't help with that – not a night has gone by without my waking up suddenly,_ absolutely certain _something terrible is happening to Qui-Gon_ right now. _We haven't been able to get a signal back to the Core in a week, and I can't help fidgeting that if anything_ has _happened, the folks at home will have heard about it and sorted it out before I know anything._

Self, self, self, Threeb. Stop it.

 _Xan hates Sempidal too, and he's doing his best to get clear as fast as he can. He's still not a good Master, and he'd be the first to agree – a_ good _Master, in this situation, with a Padawan who is biologically unable to cope with the climate, would either ask to be reassigned, or send the Padawan home – but at least he's trying to get us out of here. Although I've tried talking to him – get to know each other – we're supposed to be Master-and-Padawan for Force knows how long – the only thing we really have in common is Qui-Gon, and Xan's already made it clear that's not a topic for discussion._

 _I woke up in the dark this morning, to find Xan shaking me. He let go pretty fast the instant he worked out that the little ridges on my arm are raised scars, but stayed crouched by my bed, watching me anxiously._

 _"Are you okay, Sriel?"_

 _"Yeah, why?" Feeling my hands still trembling from the fear I had found in the night and the shock of waking, I clenched them into fists._

 _"You were yelling and waking the whole tent." And it's a_ long _canvas tent, a dormitory with a leaky roof. "One of the sergeants came to get me."_

 _"I saw something, Xan." Horrible though it had been, in a way it was a relief, after two weeks of featureless dread haunting my sleep, and of drifting off every night holding the warm stone pendant, reaching out into the Force searching for Qui-Gon, and begging for anything else he could tell me._

 _"Well, that's great." Xanatos laughed, a soft gasp of relief. "What was it?"_

 _"Blood and white marble." The single still image I'd been given burned in my mind, so that it was a few moments before I could see clearly enough to tell Xan any more. He waited, one eyebrow cocked upward in an odd, hungry expression. And I realized: he's as anxious to find Qui-Gon as I am. Maybe more – he's known him longer, and besides, I can accept that Xan might not be enthused about the idea of being stuck with me long-term. With that in mind, I told him all I had managed to take in from the fleeting glimpse I had – at any rate, it felt fleeting._

 _The white marble was a section of wall, maybe a meter wide, between two high arched windows. There was what looked like a lamp, on a bronzium bracket, in the middle of the wall, about two meters up. It was white glass, shaped like an upturned flower – a riyo flower, by the look of it. The glass was broken, and there were sharp edges everywhere. There was blood pooled inside it, and running out through the cracks to trickle down the wall and spread out through the gaps between the floor-tiles._

 _"What color?" asked Xan calmly._

 _"Red. Human-arterial red."_

 _"I meant the floor."_

 _"The tiles are about the size of my palm, and they're square, but there's some sort of pattern by the wall," I said. "I think... I think it's green?"_

 _"No," corrected Xan, "You don't think it's green; you just know it contrasts with red. Can you see anything out the windows?"_

 _"No."_

 _"Is anyone there?"_

 _"No... wait. It's reflected in the wall... I can't see properly... Oh, Force, Xan. He's – I think – he's dead. Xan..."_

 _Grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking my head down to where he could reach it, Xan knocked on my forehead with his knuckles, hard, like banging on a door._ "Here _, you think he's dead –" and switched suddenly to knock on my breastbone, right on the pendant. "Or_ here?"

 _"He's not dead," I said firmly. "You're right. I'd_ know."

 _Instead of going back to sleep, I found a flashlight and started noting down everything I could remember from the image. When we get away, when I can get a signal home, I'll see if Tahl can help me work out where I'm going. I just hope I won't be too late._

* * *

Head still ringing from being slammed against a wall, Qui-Gon prods gingerly at the deep cut glass-razored along the side of his skull. He swallows, an experiment he immediately regrets, as it only heightens the dull ache in his throat: being Force-choked is... frightening. He has been nearly garroted before now, on-mission, and while that was in no way _fun_ , it was easier than gasping for breath, slipping in and out of consciousness, and having nothing at which to strike out.

Dooku is not easily provoked, but once the fuse of his fiery temper has been lit, nothing can prevent the explosion. And the man holds grudges for decades. Qui-Gon had hoped, when he came here, that his past self had been exaggerating, had perhaps overstated how fierce the storms could be. Standing, slowly, because the bloody tiles are slick and treacherous, he mutters an apology to the shade of Dooku's first Padawan – _yes, I know you told me so_. Anyway, he has done what he came here to do. Now he just has to wait for Nasriel to keep her promise – certainly there is no way he can just up and vanish from the middle of Separatist holdings, not alone and without transport.

A doubt creeps into his mind – will Nasriel even know where to come? But... he has been here before, with Feemor. Surely as soon as the girl describes the image Qui-Gon has forced across the tattered remains of their bond, Feemor will know the system, the world, even the city. Surely it won't be long now.


	19. Chapter 19

When Qui-Gon and Nasriel reach the quarters, Obi-Wan is waiting for them, sitting at the table in the main room, reading a mission brief on his datapad while Tahl studiously ignores him. She is at the other side of the table, working on another brief, head high, typing away at an old-fashioned push-button keyboard because she cannot see to operate the more modern touchscreens, staring out the window and occasionally pausing in her rapid typing to check a detail from the pile of raised-print papers beside her.

"For Force sake, Qui," she says crisply as the door opens, "what sort of time is this to get home? Tell Obi-Wan what he wants to know, so he'll go away."

"Not my day for being universally loved," Obi-Wan quips. "Well?"

"Komari contracting a frame-up hit, trying to make us kill Dooku. That's all."

"Oh." Laying down the datapad, the Councilor nods, raises one hand to rub his temples as if he has a headache. "How am I ever going to explain this to Bail?" he murmurs, half to himself.

Nasriel sidles past them, heading for her room, but is halted by a glacial stare from Obi-Wan.

"Don't make this any harder than it has to be," he warns.

"I'm going to bed," the Padawan informs him, matching ice with ice. "I've had a very long day, and I'm tired, so I'm going to bed."

"Have you any idea how _many_ problems we are trying to deal with at the moment? Just do as you're told. This is... ludicrously minor."

"Not to me, it's not!"

" _Nasriel_." Qui-Gon lays his hand on her arm and squeezes just hard enough to _almost_ hurt. "I did not raise you to behave like this."

Chastened, temper turned to penitence as at the flick of a switch, the girl nods. "I'm sorry, Master... I'm sorry, Bi-An. You've got a lot to think about and I'm not being fair to you." She adds, "If not here, where do you want me?"

"Ah. Gree's not back yet, is she? Xan's not back yet, Feemor left for station this morning; you could stay with Anakin and Ahsoka if anyone knew where Anakin was."

"At the Senate," Qui-Gon informs them, replacing his datapad in his pocket. "He took Nasriel's citibike."

"And you have a track on Nasriel's bike," Obi-Wan realizes. "Of course you do." A pause, barely a heartbeat long. "I thought he said he was going to the lower levels again. But he's at the Senate? They aren't even in session today." With a shake of his head, he sighs, relegating the question to the realms of irrelevance. "Sriel, you could always stay with me and Ben. We are only next door."

"Okay. Um – we can talk later, Tahl?"

The lady doesn't stop work to answer. "I'm frantic right now, darling – when you get home tomorrow, all right?"

As Nasriel nods, and makes to leave, Obi-Wan swivels in his seat to talk to her. "I think Ben's asleep – it is rather late. You can sleep on the sofa... or take my room and I'll sleep on the sofa. Your choice."

"Thanks, Bi-An. I – yeah. Thanks." Nasriel leans over as if to hug him, but changes her mind and pats him affectionately on the shoulder instead. The Great Negotiator is notoriously _touchy_ – in one sense of the word – and about as _touchy_ as a toxic spiny nightscowl, in the other sense.

"Oh, I know I'm the harbinger of doom at the moment," Obi-Wan says resignedly. "I'd understand if you didn't much like me at the moment."

"You're just doing your job. And we're all being horrible to you for it. I think you're wonderful."

"And I think you're overtired to the point of _loofy_. Clear out, go to bed." Despite the roughness of his words to Nasriel, Obi-Wan manages to give the effect of an exasperated but indulgent older brother – which, in a way, he is.

Qui-Gon feels sick at the thought, remembering the ruin that was once the brilliant Jedi Komari Vosa. If Obi-Wan is Nasriel's brother in the Force... then Qui-Gon is Komari's. If Obi-Wan feels in some measure responsible for Nasriel... The relationship is almost identical, right down to the shadowy curse of the Dark Side that flows concealed, like the bitter lees in a flask of wine, unnoticed until too late, through every generation of this lineage.

When Nasriel is gone, and Tahl has muttered something about the impossibility of working in all this noise and pointedly betaken herself to the peace of her own room, Obi-Wan glances up to meet his former Master's eyes.

"How did today go?" In plain speech, if he ever used plain speech, he would be asking _am I going to be able to sleep tonight, or is your Padawan going to wake up screaming again_?

"Badly. The court seems to have forgotten that a Jedi Padawan is as susceptible to trauma as any other child of comparable age. They had her start identifying the defendants and explaining what each of them liked to do to their... prey." In plain speech, _no, you will not be able to sleep._

"Blast." But Obi-Wan sounds – and feels – more empathetic than irritated. The hard line stamped between his brows suggests that his thoughts are years away in the past. "Is she going to... cope? Raking all that up again in a courtroom?"

"A bit late to think of that now."

"Of course. It's just that I know I could never have –" he breaks off, scowling, and picks up a new question. "Are _you_... all right, Master? Coping. This whole Sith issue –"

"I have been _coping with this whole Sith issue_ , as you put it, for longer than you have been alive. All that has changed is that it is now common knowledge. And the Council are kajitt-footing around refusing to give me a straight answer –" he holds up one hand, precluding the inevitable protest. "I know that there is a war on, and that you are all insanely busy. I am merely trying to get out of limbo and back to being of _use_."

"Do you think you _aren't_ being of use?" blurts Obi-Wan. "Consider this enforced furlough, consider it... a Council injunction to take care of your Padawan during what is undoubtedly a difficult time for her. Because we both know you would be offworld without a second thought, leaving her to deal with this alone, if anyone gave you anything even _approaching_ an excuse." He takes a deep breath, and the Great Negotiator returns abruptly. "I will advance the matter again tomorrow. I may have to start getting Depa or Plo to raise it for me – Master Yoda won't let me keep asking the same question over and over again for much longer."

"Thank you." Apparently, Obi-Wan Kenobi, stickler for rules, firm opponent of any kind of favoritism, has been _nagging_ the Council on his Master's behalf. This is more than somewhat amusing. And heartening.

"As Nasriel said... I'm just doing my job. Depending how early you two have to leave tomorrow, I might see you, or I might not. Either way, may the Force be with you."

"And with you," Qui-Gon returns the valediction, a moment before the door closes behind Obi-Wan. It is very late, and although it has been a chaotic day, full of more questions than answers, all he can think of right now is _sleep_.

That doesn't last long.

At some preposterously Force-forsaken hour of darkness, the faint rustle in the Force, just barely enough to penetrate the pliable borders of the unconscious mind, rises to a shrill scream of panic – and is silenced at once. A moment later comes a soft scratching sound at the door of the quarters: the Sentinels' 'midnight knock', devised to disturb only those already wakeful.

Unsurprised, Qui-Gon opens the door to find Nasriel is waiting in the hallway. Her hands are held out at an odd angle, down and slightly behind her, fists loosely balled; she forces a split-second smile, on seeing him, but it vanishes again immediately.

"Um – I – sor-ry..."

"Shh, Tahl's still asleep. What's the matter?"

"I thought I saw..." trying to find the words, she fidgets, and lapses into Saalisan. " _Yrelt tre-etim pensloe dai-schen? Pyn yuxan samr, chenray! Xek, xacher: Bi-Anxan samr_."

" _Hroest na, pyn_ Basic _, chen_." Qui-Gon is not willing to discuss the possibility of Nasriel's having seen, in the room where she was sleeping, one of the defendants from the day's court case. Not at this hour. Not in Saalisan.

"I could _see_ them. I _woke up_ and I could _see_ them. And I was scared and I – I put out my hand to see if they were real, and –"

"That at least was sensible."

"It wasn't! Nothing's _sensible_ anymore! Because I was remembering, I was remembering what they'd – they'd _done_ , and how they didn't _care_ , and I hated them... like when I was with the Shaman." She is stammering, terrified. "I _told_ you I'd Fallen! I held out my hand, like I said, and it – it _sparked_. It was blue, blue sparks like lightning, and it – it _burned them_. They _burned_."

"Give me your hand," Qui-Gon orders sharply, realizing as if in a flash of that same blue lightning exactly what his Padawan has experienced. "No, your right hand. Put the left behind your back, out of the way. Do it now." Nasriel's left hand has a family crest tattooed on it, put there when she was only a toddler, before her Force-sensitivity became obvious. The tattoo, and the now half-forgotten emotions that were drilled into her skin along with it, could affect what happens next – or it could not, but he doesn't want to take that risk.

"What's – what's – what did I _do_?" But she obeys, and submits docilely to his touch; one hand tight around her wrist, the other forcing her to hold her hand flat.

" _Don't_ curl your fingers under – do you want to kill me? Do it again. Whatever you were thinking when you thought you saw the slavers in your room, _think_ it again. Remember what they did to you. Remember them torturing you. Remember them torturing the others, remember them murdering –" That is enough: Nasriel is sobbing now, and he is fully aware that what he is doing practically constitutes abuse in itself. In no universe could this possibly be justified, but it is _necessary_ , and the sudden change in the Padawan's expression proves it is _working_. Her eyes narrow as mental shields slam into place, as lips curl back in a knife-edged snarl of rage. At the tips of her fingers, a web of pale-blue light begins to crackle into life, to spit sparks out into the darkness of the corridor.

Then Nasriel gasps in pain and the sparks fade. "Can I stop? Let me stop, it _hurts_! Please, Master!"

"Of course, of course." The instant he lets go of her hand, she crumples, doubled over on the ground, hair pooling like ink around her head and shoulders, arms folded across her face. She chokes silently on bitter tears, salty rivulets of pure torment, Force-signature all but screaming.

"I said I'd Fallen. You didn't listen. You didn't believe me, you never do."

He falls to his knees beside her on the cold stone floor, lays one hand on her back. As if even that slight touch burns, she writhes away, and neither of them speaks again for a spell of time that seems to promise a dawnless eternity of night.

"I'm sorry," Qui-Gon breaks the silence. "Nasriel, please... I shouldn't have done that to you. I needed to know if you could really do that – if you had really done that – but I shouldn't have."

"Damn straight you shouldn't have," the Padawan snarls. Razor-sharp broken shards, from the impact of her train of thought crashing into a wall of realization, fly uncontrolled into the Force. "I wasn't dreaming. That just happened. I just – oh, no. Oh, _Force_. How am I going to handle tomorrow?"

"Much the same as you did today – you were a calm, controlled credit to yourself."

"I didn't want them to think that they'd won," Nasriel says simply, sitting up, staring past him at the moon, visible through a narrow window in the end of the corridor. "I knew I'd be taking out the change in nightmares, but I didn't think it would spill over into being _awake_." She holds her hands up to study them by the moonlight, and asks in quiet wonder, "How did you _bear_ it? The lightning."

"I didn't."

"We'll have to talk to the Council now, won't we?"

Before Qui-Gon can reply, can say, entirely out of character, that he at least should have talked to the Council many, many years ago, they are interrupted. Further up the hall, a door slams open, and a Force aura like a silently furious golden whirlwind whisks into notice, incongruously at odds with the physical appearance of its source: Obi-Wan is barefoot and sleep-tousled, cloak flung hastily on over his nightclothes.

"What in the name of – what have you two done this time?"

"Ah..." Master and Padawan exchange glances, then Qui-Gon explains smoothly, "Nightmare. She was just going back to bed, Obi-Wan; it will be a tiring day tomorrow."

Addressing Nasriel, "Would you mind if I came with you to the court in the morning? I'm merely curious," Obi-Wan deflects the unspoken accusation of his _wanting to keep an eye on her._

"If you can spare the time," Nasriel says, overwhelming calmness a work of art with the brushstrokes only barely visible, "I would be honored to have you there."


	20. Chapter 20

In the morning, a few minutes before ninth hour, I'm waiting in the corridor outside the courtroom for the bailiff to come get me, because, officially, the trial is starting again from the exact point where it left off last night. It's cold in the hallway, and the court is far enough into the upper levels that all I can see outside the windows is heavy billows of grey clouds. Inside is white marble so shiny I can see my face in the wall opposite. I look scared. I don't feel scared. I feel safer than ever.

One of the things most people don't seem to understand about being a _survivor_ is that safety becomes a paramount concern. I never feel totally safe – but some situations are better than others. Right now, I'm sitting on one of the benches that run the length of the corridor, writing in my journal, bookended between Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. They're talking over my head – civilly arguing, if I'm honest – about whether Dex being missing is really an issue. Qui-Gon thinks he probably just got arrested again and will turn up eventually; Obi-Wan's kidding around, proposing all sorts of ridiculous scenarios. I'm ignoring the conversation and writing in Saalisan – Qui-Gon can _speak_ it fluently, but all the unexpected spelling in the written form still gets to him, so my journal's secret for now.

 _Nobody_ can get to me here. 

_Later:_ I stopped for a bit because Obi-Wan nudged me to get my attention. "Nasriel, after last night's incident... have you thought seriously about _why you are doing this_?"

"I was subpoenaed," I said. "I don't get a choice."

"You're a Jedi, and you're a minor. You could have said something, and the Council, as your legal guardian, could have refused to allow you to testify. Even the courts can't overrule a guardian's veto in a criminal case. Why are you doing it? Note, I don't say you shouldn't. But... for your own sanity, as much as anything, you need to know why."

"Closure." I didn't really believe that: something that so radically alters a whole life isn't _closable_. It's like a wound that you can keep stitched up, and that might, someday, pale into a scar, but it will never go away. "I don't know, Bi-An. I just know I can't _not_. For justice? To know there are a few creeps off the streets?"

"To let the others who lived through the same hell you did sleep easier _knowing_ they're off the streets? This is the case of the century, and if nothing else, it sends a message to the entire Republic that you cannot, _cannot_ get away with things like that anymore, and that it is all right to speak up. Again, you're a Jedi. You've dedicated your life to service." Obi-Wan pauses, looking hard at me. "There is bound to be a conviction. After this trial is over, its immediate result will be that dozens, maybe hundreds of people will not have to suffer as you did. Do it for them. And do it for the other survivors."

The bailiff came then, and I had to go. Back to the witness stand, back to the same soul-destroying grind of identifying the perps. It's a big case: there are fifty people in the dock, and I only got about halfway through, yesterday. When I finished explaining who – and what – each one is, the judge called a recess, and Prosecution, looking shell-shocked, was more than happy to go along with it, to give himself time to sort out the notes of questions he _meant_ to ask me.

So I'm sitting in a corner of the room they set aside for witnesses. Today I'm the only one here; it seems the court told the others they won't have to come in until tomorrow at least. Somewhere internal, with walls that feel thick, it's a big room. I guess I'm lucky to be the first witness: I don't have to hang around for days in case of being called on short notice. One of the courthouse messengers came to give me a note, and said she'd been told to wait for a reply. It's from Obi-Wan.

 _Sriel: a week after you came home, I told you about something that happened when I was your age. I also told you they never caught the man. Turns out, I was wrong: fourth row, far left. You're doing well. May the Force be with you._

My stomach lurched when I read that, and I thought for a moment that I might retch. Fourth-row-far-left was fat and sweaty and brutal, and stank of stale bacci smoke and rancid grease. I remember him as the one who liked boys, but would _settle_ for a girl if she was thin enough, undeveloped enough, to suit him.

I saw Obi-Wan up in the spectators' gallery this morning, watching, with that narrow-eyed, hawk-like air he has when he's trying to work something out in a hurry. Qui-Gon looked detached, bored, even, but I haven't known him for thirteen years to not notice when he's _bothered_. Pretty much everything I've said in the last two hours has cut him like a shiv, reminding him he swore to look after me but didn't. I'm _not_ going to apologize or act sympathetic later: the retelling has been hard for me as well, and it won't get easier as the day goes on.

I tore a page out of my journal to reply to Obi-Wan: _I guess I'm doing this for you as well, then, survivor. Thanks._

It's the least I can do. The simple fact that _anyone_ – let alone Obi-Wan Kenobi, the epitome of _Jedi_ – understood even some of how I felt when I came home was enough to pull me back from the edge. I can guess what it must have cost him to tell me.

 _Later_ : Well, that was awful. The prosecution lawyer, finally done with listening to the long, revolting list of perverted _preferences_ , switched to asking me about myself. 'For background'. It started with _so, you're a Jedi, you're supposed to be celibate; are you in any trouble at home over what's happened to you?_ And went downhill from there. For another hour. When the questions were getting really personal, and the chief justice had already had about six of them stricken from the record, and I was almost crying _again_ , the youngest of the lawyers on the prosecution team – the woman who had gone away to be sick during the pre-trial depositions – got up and passed the senior lawyer a note. He looked from her, standing there with pleading eyes, to me, and threw up his hands in exasperation.

"Your honors, may we have a recess? This witness is distraught."

"It's noon anyway," the judge decided. "Reconvene in one hour." And the moment I was free, I flew up the steps to the gallery to find Qui-Gon.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Not really, no, but I can handle it." 

Here's a thing: being Saalisan, I get the drawback of being hypersensitive to pretty much anything inhalable, but the benefit of an excellent sense of smell... and on top of that, _I_ played the genetic lottery and drew color-scent synesthesia. Confuses the chizzk out of people when I try to describe it, particularly when something smells of a color that doesn't exist. Tahl, for instance, has a golden-purple, amber-and-honey scent. Qui-Gon just smells nice; a clean, silvery, green sort of smell, like a rainstorm in a forest, or the water-smoothed grey rocks in a cold, clear stream.

I sat down next to him on the bench, nestled close, gazing out over the empty courtroom. And just closed my eyes and _breathed_ , shutting out all the confusion and heartache for a few minutes by focusing on the simple repetition of _air in, air out_. Qui-Gon chuckled softly – he's used to me and my quirks.

But after a while, I had to come back to reality and ask, because I'd told the court I didn't _think_ so, and I wanted to know for sure: " _Am_ I in trouble? Because... I don't know why I would be, but I'm learning lately there's a lot I don't know."

"Oh, _Force_ , minx..." Qui-Gon had his arm around me, and he looked away, shaking his head. "No! I lose all faith in the Council if you are."

"Not that that was much anyway," Obi-Wan commented lightly. "The Council is fallible, Nasriel, not composed wholly of idiots. Which it would have to be to condemn you for an incident in which you were patently the victim." He added, under his breath, "The Sith question, on a similar note..."

"I am _not a Sith_!"

"I didn't say you were. We'll want to talk to you at some point, to clarify a few matters – _after_ this is all over. But nobody thinks you're Sith. And _I_ think you were magnificent this morning." He adds, after a moment, "Justice is a noble thing."

"Even twenty years too late," growled Qui-Gon.

"Even then." Obi-Wan smiled wryly. "Sriel, you know you're not supposed to be up here?"

"Yeah." I should have gone straight back to the witnesses' room from the stand, but... when you don't have a lot of time, you spend it on what's important.

"It'll be crowded downstairs by now," the Great Negotiator warned me. "And by crowded, I mean reporters. Shall I escort you back to where you're meant to be?"

Down in the corridor, I found out the advantage to having Obi-Wan along: he's high-profile enough that about half the reporters instantly forgot all about me. It didn't help anything a few meters further on, though, because the law officers were ushering a few of the defendants – the ones who could afford their bail – from the dock to a waiting area nicer than the usual prisoners' holding cells. One of them was Fourth-row-far-left.

He stopped when he saw me, and ran his tongue slowly around his lips. "Now... you, vetch, I would do again. And if I'd known you were Jedi I would have done you _every day_. Only met one other Jedi, and he was... mmm." I could feel Obi-Wan standing just behind me, a single rigid line of perfect control, and a second later, I noticed two things: I had my hand on my lightsaber, and Obi-Wan was gripping my arm, preventing me from doing anything stupid. "Someday I'll be out again, girl," Fourth-row-far-left promised. "And you will be first on my list." He leaned toward me, pulling against the handcuffs and the law deputy holding the chain. "What, you're not scared of me?"

"I _pity_ you," I said, or thought I'd said, but my throat was so dry no sound came out. "I pity you," I repeated. "You are a creature with no hope for the future." Then the deputy yanked him away, and I dragged in a deep, shuddering breath. "I didn't lie, Bi-An."

" _Pity_?" Obi-Wan repeated incredulously. "Nasriel, the man is _evil_ ; please tell me you didn't _not notice_ that."

"Of course I did. But it's true. He – all of them – they're _dead_ inside. Maybe they don't know it, but they're dead. They've rotted out whatever souls they had. And you and me... we're still alive. But..."

Obi-Wan understood. "But surviving isn't much fun."

 _Later_ : That afternoon, after the recess, Prosecution had five more hours of questions. He spent what felt like a long time asking about the _exact_ details of what was done to me... I answered it all, as calmly and directly as I could. Because justice.

Finally, seventeenth hour, Prosecution _bowed_ to me, which was weird, and said, "Thank you, Padawan Threeb, for your testimony. I don't doubt this was hard for you, and I applaud your courage," before turning to the judges' bench. "I tender the witness."

Defense opened with a bang: "I put it to you that this was a 'sting' operation, and that you _intended_ to lure my clients into kidnapping you." When I said no, it wasn't, he tried again: "I put it to you that whether you were aware of its being a 'sting' operation or not, your... _Master_ 's lack of concern or reaction to your abduction indicates that he was so aware, and allowed you to be exploited in this manner without your consent."

"I don't think so," I said, as soon as I realized I didn't _know_ otherwise, "but I'll ask him."

"Can you do so now?" Defense asked politely, glancing around the courtroom to see where I would look. So I didn't look up at all: I just put the question across our Force-bond, and as soon as I had an answer (a very curt and offended _no_ ), I repeated that to the court.

"I _see_ ," Defense said brightly, glancing down at his notes. "Do you have a boyfriend, Nasriel? I beg the court's pardon... do you have a boyfriend, _Padawan Threeb_?"

"No."

"And you were – excuse me, the question must be asked – entirely inexperienced in sexual matters at the time of your abduction?"

"I fail to see where this is going, but yes, since you ask, I was."

"Allow me to clarify," offered Defense. "You would have had no way of telling whether you had, strictly speaking, had intercourse with a man or not, is that correct?"

"I got _pregnant_ ," I replied coldly. "To the best of my knowledge, only one woman in the entire Galaxy, from the founding of the Republic until now, has been pregnant without first having intercourse. And while I may have been inexperienced, I am at least familiar with the dictionary. Do I need to recite the legal definition of _rape_ for you?"

I would be willing to swear I saw the court stenographer stifle a grin at that, but he was the only one. Today was brutal. I'm writing this at just under two hours before midnight, in the witnesses' room, waiting for Qui-Gon to come get me so we can go home, and the defense lawyer has only these ten minutes finished his cross-examination. All I can think is that I'm glad it's over... but the chief justice told me I'll have to stay on Coruscant, within call, in case they need me again.

I know how late the Council is usually in session, these war days, and I can only hope they decide they can wait until morning to ask me edged questions about Sith. I've had it up to here with questions today.


	21. Chapter 21

When Qui-Gon has collected Nasriel – almost crying with relief that her part in the trial is over – and returned to the main concourse, he finds the last of the defendants being hustled out the door, and Obi-Wan waiting for him a dozen meters nearer, expression elaborately neutral.

"What have you done now?" Qui-Gon asks.

"I may have mentioned to the judge that it is excessively unpleasant for a witness to be confronted, and threatened, by a man to whose crimes she is witnessing, and the judge may have agreed with me."

Nasriel smiles. "Thanks, Bi-An. Um, where did you put the car? You dropped us off at the door this morning."

"Down on the street." Craning his neck to look out the courthouse doors, Obi-Wan clarifies, "Through that gauntlet of reporters." As luck has it, they reach the door at the same time as the mob of defense lawyers, all arguing importantly among themselves.

Obi-Wan is blessed with the inexplicable capacity of drawing to himself all and any spare attention in a vicinity, without appearing to do anything remarkable. Qui-Gon has seen him deploy this strange power on battle-station bridges, in the Council chamber to _great_ effect, and in the middle of family quarrels, but he usually avoids doing anything of the sort when there are reporters about.

Tonight, though, Qui-Gon can almost hear the _click_ of a switch as Obi-Wan turns on his unique brand of charisma, in the moment of crossing the threshold between the golden but austere peace of the courthouse corridor into the maelstrom outside, a storm composed of equal parts flashing droidcams, shouted questions, and eddying snowflakes, razor-edged chips of ice hurled about by the gale that screams along the street.

As they slip outside, miraculously invisible in the shadow the Great Negotiator casts for them, Nasriel keeps her head down, cloak tight around her against the bitter wind, and stays close to her Master. They pass unchallenged almost as far as the curb, while Obi-Wan, a few paces ahead, tranquilly and repeatedly denies any personal involvement in the trial. Beyond the crowd of reporters, standing on the brink of the vertiginous drop down from the sidewalk-edge, one woman stands detached, clutching a notebook and intently studying the faces of the people trickling past her out of the courthouse. Her eyes narrow when she sees the defense team come out and halt on the sidewalk to look for an air taxi, and in two strides she is next to the senior lawyer, Defense himself.

"You, sir, are a villain," the woman declares coolly, loud enough for Qui-Gon, a full ten meters away, to hear her.

The instant he notices the woman, Obi-Wan shies away toward the car, giving those behind him a clear view of what transpires – just as well, really, Qui-Gon will think later, for it would have been a pity to miss it.

The woman slaps Defense soundly on the cheek, with a sharp crack like a dry branch snapping.

"That poor little girl. You are no better than the slime you're defending," the tirade continues. Defense can't leave without making a scene, as the woman is gripping his expensive lapels. "The _trauma_ she has been through, and now you – you _kzah_ – have to twist the knife. You are despicable and I swear I will tell the whole world so." With one final shake of Defense's already quite shaken person, she lets him go, spitting on the ground at his feet as a parting shot.

When the dazed lawyer has rejoined his colleagues – who have found a cab in the meantime – the excitable lady turns, with a beaming smile, to Nasriel, who stands waiting to be able to pass.

"Padawan Threeb, you are a hero."

"I was only doing my duty," the Padawan murmurs, eyes firmly fixed on Obi-Wan, only a few meters away along the street, but almost invisible in the gusting snow.

"Are you glad you testified?" the stranger asks, earnest, sincere in her quest for an answer, and waits, motionless, for Nasriel's reply.

"I am glad to have done it. I am glad if what I said helps the jury reach a just verdict."

"Thank you," the woman says, gently. "For what you did, and for talking to me. I am honored to have met you, Nasriel Threeb." Tucking her notebook under her arm, she pulls off one woolen glove and politely extends her bare hand to shake Nasriel's, before whisking away down the sidewalk in a flurry of snowflakes.

In the warmth of the car on the way home, windshield wipers squeaking rhythmically on snowdrifts, Qui-Gon drives with one hand on the steering yoke, the other arm around Nasriel, who wilts wearily against him on the bench frontseat of the car. Obi-Wan sits on the other side, arms folded, inscrutable.

"You do know who that woman was?" he demands suddenly of Nasriel.

"...No?"

"That was Sarathpas." When this elicits only a non-committal _huh_ , he adds softly, "Coruscant's foremost gossip columnist. She wasn't joking when she told that lawyer she could tell the whole world what she thought of him – and people will read it; she writes well."

This is too good to pass up – Qui-Gon asks, very solemn and polite, "Now, how would you know that, Obi-Wan?"

"I like to keep track of who's where," the Councilor defends himself, blushing scarlet – or perhaps that is only the brightly-lit holobillboard they pass under a moment later. "Chances are she'll write about you, Sriel."

"She won't," Nasriel says with a kind of quiet certainty. "I know it."

When they get back to the Temple, it is late: ludicrously, lights-out-in-the-main-courtyard late. Obi-Wan fumbles in his pocket for his Council override chip to turn them back on, but Qui-Gon puts out one hand to stay him.

"No need." And so they walk home through the deserted Temple halls, their steps guided by the cold, pure radiance of cloud-shattered moonlight reflected and magnified off new-fallen snow. In the corridor between their neighboring front doors, after insisting on Obi-Wan giving her a moment's patience so she can kiss Qui-Gon goodnight, Nasriel disappears into the Kenobi quarters to sleep. Because the Council edict is still in full force.

She is back in the morning, tapping on the balcony window, at around sixth hour. It is still cold and dark outside, and beginning to snow again; Nasriel is shuffling her feet, scuffling the snow on the balcony and soaking the hem of her overlong cloak with meltwater, and breathing like a young draigon in little puffs of swiftly dissipating smoke.

When Qui-Gon, already awake and, this past half-hour, at work on their grievously overdue mission report, goes to let her in, she explains, unasked and bubbling with mischievous hilarity, "I climbed over from Obi-Wan's terrace." And indeed, a row of footprints decorates the narrow ledge bridging the sheer cliff of Temple wall between the neighboring balconies.

"Does Obi-Wan know where you are?"

"Um... no." Grinning like a drawerful of polished knife-blades at the delightful idea of the Great Negotiator's anticipated confusion, Nasriel stoops to shake a load of ice-crystals off one of the plants, and changes the subject. "Can we bring the candy-paper plant inside? It doesn't like cold weather; it got all tarnished last year."

" _Candy-paper plant_ ," the Master mutters in disbelief, but cannot deny that the _kaba_ lily's leaves do resemble the gold-foil paper used to wrap chocolates. "You may bring it in and put it in the 'fresher-room," he decides, magnanimously overlooking his Padawan's act of botanical heresy. "... _if_ you brush the snow off it to keep it from dripping."

"Okay." And within minutes, the plant is wedged between the basin and the shower, and Nasriel has set a pot of tea brewing, and pulled up a stool to join Qui-Gon at the table.

"What are we doing, Master?"

"Something absolutely thrilling... mission report."

Nasriel nods, and extracts her journal from her cloak pocket, to contribute notes. He has not seen her this unreservedly _happy_ in... months. And says so.

"I'm home," Nasriel says, as if that should settle the matter. When it doesn't, she continues, "I'm home – it's all finished, we're writing the mission report already. It's over. I'm free. And after yesterday, I know I'm... okay. In that courtroom, I _could_ have made every single one of those _yrelt dai-schenal_ keel over and drop dead, with nobody having any clue what was happening. And it wasn't a matter of getting away with it, because I could have done that too. I even wanted to. But I _didn't_. So whatever the Council has to say about it – whenever they decide to say it – _I_ know I didn't Fall after all."

"Nobody would doubt it of you for a second," Qui-Gon assures her soberly, aware of the subtext his Padawan is bound to pick up.

And she does. "Don't worry," says Nasriel, roles suddenly reversing as apprentice tries to comfort Master in a dark time. "If they're really _trying_ to find the truth, they will."

He is not _worrying_. He just wishes that this _Sith question_ , too, was over, and no longer hanging about him – about both of them – as a smothering black fog, thicker and darker and more polluted than the smog-laden storm clouds gathered and at bursting point in the predawn twilight outside the window.

A moment later, a knock on the door isn't Obi-Wan, on Council business, but Ahsoka, on a rather different errand, flushed and excitable.

"Um... good morning, Master Jinn... 'Morning, Sriel. You know it snowed – like a lot – last night. We're trying to get a snowball fight going on the main steps and courtyard, see if we can get enough Padawans along that the Spire crew can't stop us. D'you want to...?"

"Who's in already?" Nasriel asks.

"Skyguy and Ben and Bruck and me... and I threw your name around – hope you don't mind – and got about ten of the Boehme gang in... and Maris and Dama and Jax and Caleb Dume. Do you think twenty will cut it?"

"Call Kijé Yenseh or Telcontir Leannen," Qui-Gon advises. "They seem to have the most influence with the other Padawans. And have you been down to Ninth Lower? The Sentinels have never been averse to baiting the Council."

Ahsoka scowls in frank confusion. "Are you supposed to tell me stuff like that?"

"No."

"Okay, cool, then. Kijé, Telcontir, and Ninth Lower. You coming, Sriel?"

Nasriel turns to her Master with a faint, hopeful smile. "May I?" And when permission is solemnly given to participate in a jaunt whose explicit intention is to irritate the Council, and Qui-Gon has assured her that he can fill in the details from her journal notes later, Nasriel snatches up her cloak from where it was drying over a chair, and vanishes with Ahsoka.

The mission report progresses perhaps another paragraph, and then Qui-Gon has had enough, and anyway, can't go any further until he has Nasriel to decode her notes about what happened while she was away with Fett, and then with Dooku. Aching for a _proper_ sunrise but knowing that the slight lightening of the dirty grey horizon is as good as it will get today, or for many days hence, he goes out onto the balcony. Qui-Gon dislikes winter, and Coruscant's all-pervasive _pollution_. But he knows that the Temple, most days comfortably above the gritty cloud cover, has some of the cleanest air on the planet. Compared to Pulchris or Felucia, though, that isn't saying much, and it is even worse since the war began.

At least the snow still falls white. At least the children can still play. Many stories below in the courtyard, _snowball fight_ seems to have disintegrated into _girls against boys_ : Ahsoka has Ben down, and is scrubbing his face with a handful of snow... or she is until Bruck, eldest present and acting peacemaker, pulls them apart by the collars and sends them off in opposite directions. But there are still over a hundred Padawans and young Knights down there, hurling snowballs with terrifying accuracy; playing silly games, for one morning, with no thought of the war outside their gates; _laughing_. Qui-Gon is sorry for whomever the Council sends downstairs to break up the melee.

And then Mace calls.

Instead of calling his Padawan's comlink and making her come up alone, Qui-Gon goes down to the courtyard to fetch her in person. It takes Kijé, standing watching from a corner and instantly volunteering to find Nasriel to save Master Jinn the trouble, exactly one minute and three direct snowball hits to locate his friend and let her know her Master is looking for her. Nodding resignedly, she trudges toward the foot of the steps, where Qui-Gon waits.

"Nasriel..." She looks up the moment he says her name, aura sparking with nervousness, but comes anyway, absolutely and silently trusting him, even after the next words: "We've been called before the Council."


	22. Chapter 22

Mace Windu greets them with a silent scowl – years of familiarity with the Korun Master have taught Qui-Gon that this is merely the consequence of yet another early-morning Council session, and not a symptom of personal grievance. Obi-Wan, in his place almost in a corner, smiles for half an instant, a tiny flicker of reassurance... a warning that he is going to be the Great Negotiator today, not the wryly humorous, hotheaded _brat_ he lets himself be at home.

This morning the Council has decided it will deal with Nasriel first – as likely to take less time. After all, _she_ has only spent a week with a Sith Lord and the Shaman of the Whills and been seen to be capable of using Sith lightning. Comparatively speaking, this is nothing, and certainly less important than the Council's concern five weeks ago that she was following uncannily closely in the pattern laid down by Komari Vosa in the months before her desertion of the Order. Five weeks is not even a full month in the Standard calendar. So much has happened in five weeks.

It's cold in the Council chamber. Sometimes, Qui-Gon wonders if the thermostat is deliberately set low, or if his own longstanding mental association of cold with danger makes him think it colder than it is. Either way, he feels chilled to the bone long before Yoda interrupts Nasriel in the middle of a sentence, and tells her briskly that he has heard enough.

"Suffered much, you have. Behaved as a Jedi should, hmm. Clear you to return to your normal status and freedoms, this Council does. Go, and may the Force be with you."

Nasriel bows – a deep, apparently boneless motion where her forehead almost touches her knees – the gesture is common enough among younglings and Padawans. Fortuitously, the incidence of occasions where such an extravagant showing of respect is suitable decreases in direct proportion to normal age-related loss of flexibility. The younger generation may twist themselves into knots if they wish, but older Masters have neither any need nor any inclination to do so.

As Nasriel vacillates on the threshold of the Council Chamber, dismissed by the Grand Master but not by her own Master, Qui-Gon decides matters.

"Thank you, Nasriel. You can leave now. Go and translate your journal notes back into Basic." The next few hours will be deeply disagreeable for all concerned, and, difficult as Qui-Gon has every reason to expect a full Council interrogation to be, he would still rather Nasriel did not have to witness it. Telling the entire story, unveiled, undecorated, and thoroughly unpleasant, to the stone-faced Council he has been trying for years to appall is one thing. Having his Padawan there, listening, and having to watch the trust slowly die in her eyes... is another entirely.

* * *

I wish I could remember the Basic for _kynanze._ I've been sitting here on the sofa for half an hour looking through Tahl's old paper-copy dictionary for it and I still don't know. And I'm nervous as all nine-Sith-hells – that's not the best simile, not today – and Qui-Gon's shutting me out again. I don't know what the Council's going to do to us... and I'm not sure I want to.

 _Later_ : Master Billaba came by, and I thought that it meant the meeting was over, and that that was a good thing. It wasn't. She just wanted me to go for a walk with her, in the main concourse. The whole time, I was fidgety, and she knew it, and I kept trying to ask in the nicest possible way _what was going on_ , and she knew that too. But she carried on talking trivialities as if my whole life wasn't on the line, until finally I stopped dead in the middle of the hall.

"Please, Master Billaba, just explain why you're keeping me out here."

She looked down at her chrono and nodded, slowly. "Thank you for your patience, Padawan Threeb. I am no longer keeping you here. You are free to go." So of course, I forgot all about the rules for proper behavior inside the Temple and _ran_ home.

Obi-Wan was there again, standing just inside the door, arms folded, carefully avoiding my eyes.

"Hey, Bi-An, what did the Council decide?" I asked, and then looked around, to see that all the doors in the quarters were open, Tahl was in her room sorting piles of paper, and... "Where's – where's Qui-Gon?"

"You won't be seeing him again," Obi-Wan said tightly.

"I won't be... _Obi-Wan Kenobi_ , what the _broad blue Wild Space_ is going on?"

"Qui's leaving," Tahl called, voice harsh. "They say he's _not a Jedi anymore_. They're throwing him out."

"It is _not that simple!_ " shouted Obi-Wan. He wasn't bothering to shield at all, and his aura was bleeding pure pain. I guess it's not easy being a member of the Council banishing the man who has been your mentor – your father, almost – for pretty much your whole life. But I still don't have a lot of sympathy for Obi-Wan.

"What... happens to me?" I stumbled.

"You'll go to Feemor as soon as he gets home. Until then, you'll stay with Xan." Seeing the look of horror on my face – not because of Xan and Feemor, I like them well enough, but because everything had been sorted out without asking me – Obi-Wan said dangerously, "It was all I could do to keep you off the orphans' list, Sriel."

Not answering, since I didn't trust myself not to burst into tears all over again, I went to my room and closed the door. At least that way I didn't do anything I'd regret. I still don't know the Basic for _kynanze_ , but it doesn't matter anymore. That report's never going to be written.

* * *

When Qui-Gon creeps stealthily home for the last time, it is late – or early, depending on one's point of view. The moon slants in through a rare break in the ever-present clouds of a Coruscant winter, pouring a pool of liquid silver onto the polished blond wood of the floor, and penning impenetrable shadows in every hollow and corner.

In this uncertain light, it is some moments before he sees that Nasriel, for some unknown reason, is sleeping on the sofa, black hair an opaque sweep of ink on the moonlight-sketched monochrome of the room, Obi-Wan's massive pet txakurra Blaze sprawled on the floor at her head.

"Nasriel..." Qui-Gon crouches beside her, gently shakes her awake.

"Uhn-hm. Whas'time?"

"Fourth hour. Sh-sh-sh. I'm not supposed to be here."

She blinks, fully awake, but puzzled. "Obi-Wan said I'd never see you again. What _happened_?"

 _What didn't_ , he wants to mutter ruefully, but settles for, "Don't worry, Nasriel. You'll be all right." He believes this whole-heartedly: Nasriel's talent for survival has already been proven many times over. What is less certain is whether _he_ will be all right. The Padawan notices, suddenly, what he is _not_ saying, and sits up to look her Master in the face.

"So what's happening now?"

"They're sending me to Thalassia. Out of the way. I'm supposed to leave with Gree and Foz before dawn." He halts; Nasriel waits, sensing there is more. There is. "I'm not going, minx. There's work to be done that I can't do buried at an outpost. I've worked it out with Gree. We'll travel together as far as the interchange at Corellia, and then the Sentinels continue to their real destination – not Thalassia, the Priory – and I go my own way."

"Can I come with you?"

"No." Nasriel's aura clouds, muddying the silver moonlight in the room, and Qui-Gon explains. "I won't let you throw your life away like that."

"But you don't care about your own?"

"To tell you honestly, minx... I doubt I'll be throwing away more than a few years." He is seventy-one years old, and grimly aware that to survive his chosen lifestyle another five years would be nothing shy of a miracle. But then, as he has so often told all of his Padawans, life itself is a miracle.

"Are you really leaving to do something," she asks, golden eyes wide and candid, "or are you running away from something?" The question does not sound as harsh as its component words do: she is merely curious. Nasriel slips down until she sits next to him on the floor.

"I've convinced Kijé to open the transcript from last night's Council meeting for you. Draw your own conclusions from the data – you're good at that."

"Are you going to kill somebody?" the catechism continues.

"I may have to." This is not a lie either: every mission carries the hazard, however remote, of _having to kill somebody_. Setting out alone, without the sanction or support of the Council, to seek out the most dangerous man – or woman; the mysterious Sidious could well be a woman – in the Galaxy... this does increase the hazard somewhat. It also increases the imminence of his own death.

"Then, I don't want you to go without me," the Padawan says calmly, shivering in the icy draft that breathes across the floor. She slides closer to him, the fuzzy fabric of her pajama pants gliding smoothly over the polished floor, and Qui-Gon tosses a fold of his cloak around her, hugs her casually, one-armed.

"Hard luck," he says ruthlessly. "I am leaving. You are staying. There will be no further discussion."

"D'you want your lightsaber?" Nasriel reminds him, smile glimmering into razor-edged life. She knows perfectly well that a Jedi's lightsaber is his _life_ , as much a part of him as another limb. Does he _want_ it...?

"Is Master Windu bald? Of course I'll need it." That is not quite what she asked, but _want_ enters very little into any of the decisions that have been, or will be, made in these quiet hours between sunset and dawn.

"Well, if you want it back, you'll have to promise me one thing." And unless he is willing to take the weapon by force, he will have to abide by Nasriel's terms: she is wearing it clipped next to her own lightsaber on her belt, slung carelessly around her waist, covered by the knee-length pajama shirt.

"What do you want?"

"Promise you'll come back. Or – or else give me permission to come and find you, either after a year and a day, or when I sense you're in serious trouble, whichever comes first."

"I can't promise to come back. But... I will give you permission to come looking for me, on the condition that you are sensible and don't try coming alone."

"Deal." His lightsaber slaps into his open palm, and Nasriel snuggles closer, head on his shoulder, as tranquil as if this were not their last conversation for many months or perhaps ever. "Hey, it's all over now, but I'm still... curious. Now that you're leaving me again... would you tell me one thing?"

"What's that, _chen_?" The Padawan's _again_ is ringing alarm bells in his head, suggesting a weighty question on the horizon, and the Saalisan hypocorism gives her tacit permission to switch to that language – long established between them as the vocabulary of private discussions – if she would prefer.

She would. " _Solvi no vehl xek kersen yu? Pyn Laerdocia, yu terezen. Yu varel no, Qui-Gon, yu... sirevaed no, sh no vehl_ yknalen _yu. V yu sihroest: solvi_?"

" _Nu siweret tzoro? Nataz, nuen kan._ " While he could answer the question in Saalisan and be fairly sure of getting his point across, this is too important to take even the slightest risk of miscommunication. Basic, then. "The reason I didn't rescue you is, in the simplest possible language... I didn't know you were gone until it was too late. Even then I thought I would have at least a few hours to find you at Laerdocia. I don't know what I would have done if I'd found you there, either. It would have ended in death – certainly others', possibly mine, and probably yours."

"You only had ten minutes to find me at Laerdocia," Nasriel says, voice an odd blend of black humor and buried pain. "And – and there are worse things than dying, Master."

"Nasriel –"

"Look, you must have done your best; I know that because you're _you_. If your best isn't good enough, there's not a lot you can do about it. You don't need to be sorry for that," the Padawan murmurs. "Because there was nothing you could have done. But can you contrive to be sorry for leaving me now?"

Qui-Gon sighs. He is deeply, deeply sorry to be leaving again... and sorrier still for the circumstances, finally come to light, that are forcing him to leave. "I'll be gone in half an hour, and I have to be out of the Core by eighth hour. I'll wait one day at Corellia, and if you still want to come with me after you've read the Council transcript, and if Xanatos will allow you to come, then so be it."

"I'll still want to," Nasriel says with quiet certainty. "I can't imagine why I wouldn't."

"You may find your imagination challenged, then, minx." He has every intention of waiting a _week_ at Corellia before going on to his destination... and little enough hope that he will not be traveling on alone. Here, in the moment, though, his Padawan is crying without shame, turning awkwardly to wrap her arms around his neck. He hugs her back, fiercely, and decides _to hell with the Order's official injunctions against attachment_ : more than likely this will be the last time.

"Why do I have to lose _everything_?" the girl demands in a choked voice, words jerky with suppressed weeping.

"Not everything. Not even anything terribly important. Just me." Quicksilver tears glisten on Nasriel's cheeks; he brushes them gently away with the pad of his thumb, only noticing the roughness of his skin when compared to the smoothness of hers. "Deep breath. You'll be all right."

"Mm-hm." Uncertainty fighting mad hope. "Be safe." Knowing the words are empty, and saying them anyway.

Qui-Gon stands, slowly; lays Nasriel down on the sofa again, tucks the blanket back around her. Still snared in an obstinate embrace, he takes a minute to gently disengage himself from the Padawan's grasp.

"You have to let me go, minx." _They_ have given him the choice between Thalassia and a thanatosine containment cell, and if he is still here when dawn breaks, _They_ will take it that he has not chosen Thalassia. The faint greyness on the very edge of the horizon warns that he is cutting things _very_ fine. Pressed for time, he cannot spare the few minutes to say goodbye to Tahl. He is not even supposed to have come to say goodbye to Nasriel: _They_ said it would be better if he simply vanished, left the girl to get on with her life. But, "Look after Tahl for me," he asks.

"I'll tell Bi-An you said so. 'Cause by this time tomorrow I'll be at Corellia with you." Nasriel's eyes start to drift shut – after all, it is nearly fifth hour, and she was up late last night.

"I hope you will." He knows she won't. "May the Force be with you, Nasriel Threeb. Goodbye."

"You've never said that to me before," the Padawan mumbles, falling over the brink of sleep.

Qui-Gon does not reply, but slips out silently, closing the door, and wends his way down through the Temple into the sublevels to meet Gree and Foz, and thence into the dark streets of the early morning, pack shouldered, making for the municipal spaceport to catch a shuttle to Corellia.


	23. Chapter 23

I woke this morning to find Blaze nudging me with his cold, wet, txakurra nose. As soon as I'd properly woken up, and swatted Blaze away, I remembered what happened last night, and I felt like someone had grabbed a fistful of my guts and clawed them out: aching, and hollow inside. My Master was gone. Although an echo of his aura, a breath of his familiar green-and-silver scent, still lingered in the room, it was almost worse than if there had been no sign of his ever having been there.

Seventh hour, which meant I was running out of time – I headed for the Archives, and through them to Kijé's room. Properly speaking, it's just a kind of sideroom to the Archives, where Madame Nu has always kept spare books, and where now Kijé keeps his bed, tucked in a corner with his belongings in boxes underneath. Kijé smiled slightly when I came in, and handed me a pair of earphones.

"I've been expecting you since fourth hour," he said. "I was going to give you the transcript, but I thought you might get more out of the recording."

"Have you –"

"I haven't listened to it. Master Jinn said you needed to know before you went haring off across the Galaxy, but it's no affair of mine." I couldn't tell whether he meant Qui-Gon _said_ it was none of his business or whether he just decided that for himself, but I put on the earphones and activated the recording. For the next couple hours, I sat there on Kijé's bed, listening to my worst nightmare.

I think what must have settled it for the Council was when Qui-Gon told them he had used the Sith lightning to blind Tahl, and that he thought he was trying to kill her, and Yoda asked him to explain. There was a crackling noise on the recording just then, and my best guess is that he didn't just _explain_.

Or maybe it was when he told them that he knew all along that Dooku's occasional voyages were really killing sprees, as the former Sentinel disposed of the various enemies he had made over the years, leaving behind a trail of torture and murder.

"And you did nothing to stop him?" Master Gallia asked, gently sorrowful.

"Nothing," Qui-Gon repeated. "A few times I asked to go with him – I have enemies of my own, you know."

I tore off the earphones so I didn't have to hear whether he _had_ gone with Dooku, gone murdering, but Kijé passed them back and took my hand in his.

"He wanted you to listen right to the end. I'm sorry, Nasriel – I can tell by your face it's pretty bad."

"No chizzk," I muttered, but kept listening. 

Master Windu was talking – maybe _thundering_ is more like it. "…done nothing strictly criminal, so we can't pass this over to the civilian authorities or lawfully imprison you within the Temple." My blood ran cold – I hadn't thought they would try that. But even with the worst possible outcomes out of the way, what remained was still, as Kijé had said, pretty bad. It started with _you are no longer a Jedi_ , and went on from there.

"We cannot at this time consider you absolutely a Sith, but you should be aware that we will be actively watching for good reason to do so. For this reason, we intend to keep an eye on you; you are being assigned to the outpost at Thalassia. Jedi Yarzakawula and Jedi Ferens will accompany you there."

"And if I refuse to go?" Qui-Gon asked.

"We are giving you a choice between going to Thalassia and going to a Force-blocked cell inside the Temple. If you choose the former, you are required to have vacated the Temple and the Core by eighth hour. You will _not_ stop to take leave of anyone, and you will _not_ return. Either of these courses of action will constitute _good reason_. We will ensure that anyone with a legitimate need to know of your departure is informed."

Obi-Wan murmured, "Can he at least have a chance to explain to Nasriel and say goodbye? She's his Padawan, it's her right."

"Not-Jedi, is Qui-Gon Jinn," Yoda cut him off. "Train a Padawan, can one who is not a Jedi? Impossible. A _right_ to speak to one who is not a Jedi, has any Padawan? No. Later, shall we consider the girl."

And then Master Windu picked up again. "I can see you don't have your lightsaber – if you did, we would demand that you surrender it before you left. Wherever it is, it can stay."

"Can I keep my datapad?" Qui-Gon asked drily.

Master Koon had pre-empted Master Windu to answer, taking the question at face value. "We'll wake someone up in the Archives to clear it of classified data, and then yes, you may." I realized that that must have been when Qui-Gon asked Kijé to get access to this recording for me.

"You may return to your quarters for your cloak and anything else you need, provided Padawan Threeb is not there at the time," Master Windu had continued. "Depa, can you get her out of the way?"

"Certainly," Master Billaba acquiesced. And then the session had been dissolved – temporarily – and the recording cut out.

Kijé had spent the last few minutes typing rapidly, one-handed, into the conversation function of his datapad, but now he was staring at me. "Nasriel? Um, I was just typing to Madame Nu… whatever you just heard… wasn't the worst."

"How the seven sages of Kal'Shebbol could there be _worse_ , Kijé?" I exploded.

"There's a holocron crystal missing from the Dark Side Artefacts storage in the sublevel. You know the security footage down there is just a static holo at one-minute intervals, to save data? Well, the thing disappeared between one holo and the next. Um… right about half-past fourth hour."

"I have to go," I said. "Thanks, Kij. I – I have to go."

Seems like he knew what I wanted to do, because he shrugged, and said, "Well, if I don't see you again… may the Force be with you."

Hurrying home, I found Xanatos waiting for me at the door, looking more responsible, and sicker of being responsible, than I'd seen him since the time he almost got Bruck killed on a mission. He reached to pull me toward him, and casually ruffled my hair. I _hate_ people touching my hair.

"You just missed Master Gallia," he said. "Um… I don't know how to put this, kid. Qui-Gon has – has been reassigned, to one of the Rim outposts, and he won't be back. Feemor's going to take you on, they say, and until he gets back… I guess I will."

"Why'd Qui-Gon leave?" I asked, hearing my voice tremble. At least my uncertainty and shock weren't a lie, even if the question I asked was. "Can I go with him?"

"No!" Xan said forcefully, then sighed. "I swear I would let you, _and_ go with you, if I could, but you're still under Central Court injunction to stay on-world… and I doubt the Council would want you to go. We'll just have to find something to do around here until Feemor gets home."

"So you absolutely will not let me go after Qui-Gon?" I had to check, because I wasn't asking Xanatos' permission here, I was asking _Qui-Gon's_ permission, and even an _I don't care_ from Xan would count for that.

I was not to be so fortunate: "No, sweetheart, I absolutely will not." He added, perhaps trying to be nice, "Is there anything you wanted to do on Coruscant? Um… we could go looking for Dex?"

While there were many, many things I would rather have done than go looking for Dex, starting with going back to Kijé's for tea and sympathy, I had a few reasons for what I said next. First, whether he was here or not, Qui-Gon would never want me to just buckle under and cry. Second, even if he is really gone and it is really forever, what better way of honoring his memory – because it will have to be a memory, I know I won't be allowed to talk about it much – than using the man-hunting skills I learned from him, in searching for his friend? And last… I'm a Jedi. I can't let this hit me so hard I don't get up again. I have to get on with my life.

So, "Okay, Xan," I said. "I think we should start at the cantina."

* * *

Qui-Gon has no desire to be here, but he has thrown away all that remained of his life for it, and it would be a shame to waste the sacrifice now. Particularly as it is not solely his own – regardless of the Jedi truism that no person is any more important than any other, that everyone is expendable, replaceable, he knows he is forcing _sacrifice_ on Nasriel as well, and on Xanatos and Feemor, who will have to rearrange whatever plans they had, to compensate for his absence. And on Gree and Foz, who have deliberately flouted the Council's orders on his word alone.

He stole the holocron from the secure storage area, with a key chip taken from Kijé's room when the boy was distracted. He hopes Kijé won't get in too much trouble. The rough sphere of crystal burns his hands, and the darkness that still hangs about it, relic of Zigoola from whence Obi-Wan retrieved it, erodes the light he has so carefully gathered up and brought with him.

Dooku _will_ be pleased.

Dooku _looks_ pleased, too, holding out his hand for the compact treasury of Sith knowledge, of which Qui-Gon is only too glad to be free. Although it is the smallest, least valuable 'cron he could find, Qui-Gon knows the former Jedi – the… _other_ former Jedi – will take it as evidence of absolute betrayal of the Order. Yoda, when he finds out, will no doubt think the same.

Now only one thing remains to tie him back to the Jedi Order, but it is the first thing Dooku and his enigmatic master will notice. Qui-Gon takes one last breath as a free man… and lets go of the light.

* * *

Astri was at the cantina when Xan and I got there. Dex has been gone for weeks, and I guess if I hadn't been so worried about the trial, and about my Master, I'd have missed him – Qui-Gon and I used to stop by Dex's every few weeks, when we were home. It wasn't a bad system. Knowledge that there could be Jedi around at any time keeps the worst thugs clear of this whole street, and Dex's web of contacts has bloodlessly solved more conflicts than the Council records will ever show.

I've spent the last hour hunting around the cantina, hoping to find any clue to where Dex might have gone, but it's hopeless. In an exact reversal of the problem I faced while searching Fett's quarters on Kamino so many weeks ago, here I'm having trouble working out whether any of the dozens of hints I've found is relevant. Xan was helping me for a while, but when I told him off for disturbing a pile of papers so badly I couldn't tell their original order, he went outside to sulk.

 _Later_ : Well, that was weird. Of all the people who could possibly have shown up at Dex's cantina at ninth hour on a weekday morning, who should appear but Jango Fett? With Boba in tow, naturally. I guess they missed Xan on the way in, because I was sitting at the counter drinking cold black caf and sifting through a folder of travel documents – Dex's as well as other people's – and the only warning I got that I wasn't alone was Jango's voice, sharp, surprised.

 _"Su cuy'gar!_ " he said. " _Tion vaii gar ver'gebuir_?" _Where is my Master indeed_ , I wanted to say. While the phrase Jango used to refer to Qui-Gon _literally_ means something like the Saalisan _ray varetki_ , its connotations in Mando'a are slightly different.

" _Kaysh ru'payt_ ," I replied shortly. "Uh… _kyr'adysh be'chaaj_."

" _Wayii! Parer – me'ven_?" For the first time ever, I heard Jango Fett sounding actually shocked, and then realized I'd used a word that, in Mando'a, has two meanings – one of which is _dead_. And while I'm still afraid I'll have to use it in that sense someday… it is not this day.

"Oh," I said, " _Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la_." _Not dead, just a long way away_. "I don't want to talk about it, Jango. _Me'vaar ti gar_?"

" _Eh, naas vutyce_. We're here to catch up with my mentor," Jango shrugged. "Don't look at me like that; you thought I was always the greatest bounty-hunter in the Galaxy? But. My mentor will only let me contact him through this Dexter Jettster."

"Dex is missing right now, but I'll find him," I said. "I'll find him for you, and then you'll owe me, like you owed Qui-Gon." At that point, Xanatos came in, and Jango switched back to Mando'a.

 _"N'epar nu pirur._ " But he was wrong – it can't wait. _I_ can't wait. I have to find Qui-Gon.

"What's going on, kiddo?" Xanatos asked quietly, pouring himself a mug of horribly tarry, brewed-all-morning caf. When a few drops spattered onto the papers I had been studying, I noticed something strange, and quickly shuffled the page under so Jango wouldn't see what I had seen.

I can find Dex without Jango's help. Dex knows where to find Jango's mentor. And then Jango will have to help me find Qui-Gon. Now I just need a way of getting offworld…


	24. Chapter 24

"Seven days," Jango decided. "I've got someone to kill downtown, so you have seven days to find Jettster before I join in." Knowing he was serious about the seven days, I didn't think it was a good idea to ask about the killing.

"Give me just a moment, Jango," I begged, yanking one precious page out of the folder and pulling Xan aside to explain.

I was three sentences in before I remembered Xanatos doesn't speak a word of Saalisan, and had to start over. Flapping the page at him, I said, "Xan, I've got a _world_. This is terrific. I can find Dex in a week on this alone. But I have to go _now_. If I can make Jango owe me… come on, Xanatos."

"Where do you need to be, kid?"

"Ojom."

"Okay," said Xan, taken-aback. "Ojom. Just tell me one thing, with no exaggeration: do you sincerely believe you can find Dex? Remember you'll be working mostly alone, because I'm about as useful as a sugar teapot when it comes to hunting."

"I can do it," I said. I have to do it. I'll need Fett's help – maybe a year from today, maybe a lot sooner, but the point is that I'll need it. And finding Dex is the only way I can afford to pay for it.

"Okay," Xan said again. "You know this is going to be crazy hard to get permissions for?"

"You're a diplomat by trade, DuCrion. You can handle it."

Well… long story short, Master Koon is an old friend of Qui-Gon's, nearly as troubled about this whole debacle as Xan and I are, and perfectly willing to help us 'buy' Jango Fett's help. He called up the Central Courts on my behalf and read them the riot act. _Were they aware this constituted unlawful imprisonment_? Never mind that the 'prison' is an entire planet. _Well, will they_ kindly _allow Padawan Threeb to be offworld for ten days, on urgent Temple business_? While 'urgent Temple business' is overstating my self-imposed mission just a little, I didn't have to say it, and it got results.

Xan and I were getting _Morningstar_ ready to leave for Ojom half an hour after Master Koon got off the line with the chief justice – some of the landing gear was jammed and we had to pull it apart to investigate. Although Anakin is the best in the family – possibly the best in the Temple – at fixing stuff, we couldn't be bothered looking for him, so we pulled the jammed gear apart, getting oil and hydraulic fluid everywhere, and settled down to cleaning out the pieces and tossing tools at each other. Xan would make a terrible Master, but that's mostly because he doesn't like being restricted, and doesn't see the point in restricting anyone else. On the other hand, he's the go-to 'older brother' when I just want to have some fun for a while.

I suppose it isn't natural to be sad all the time, or even for very long. In that way, it's like swimming in the ocean: rather than a continuous storm, hammering you under and overwhelming you at every turn, misery takes you in waves, with just enough time in between to recover. You'll only drown if you give up. I'm not giving up.

And just for now, I'm floating in a calm patch, surviving until the next wave, and tentatively enjoying myself.

"What is _this_?" Xan demanded, clawing a clot of sticky purplish-black gel out of a sleeve tube.

"That's blood," I said. "The cleaning droids must have missed it." Enter another ocean wave: that was only six days ago. I studied the almost-healed cuts on my wrists and remembered to keep breathing.

A memory: sitting in the engine room watching my blood run like ink over my palms. Wondering vaguely whether it really was possible to die like this. Feeling, for that brief half-hour, guiltier for stealing the knife than for going off with Dooku and starting… oh, such a storm.

Another memory: being very small, about five or six, and having Qui-Gon stop by the youngling dorm one evening, to visit me on his way home from a mission. I had listened with interest, but little understanding, to an account of a mix-up at Hygerria. (It was years before I realized that these visits doubled as rehearsal for Council debriefings later.) On this occasion, I had had as terrible a day as a Temple youngling can, and poured out the whole pathetic story. How so-and-so had laughed at my accent. How Master Alaan had made me redo a page of writing because such-and-such had spilled a cup of juice on it. How I had fallen into the waterfall pool in the Thousand Fountains while trying to retrieve a pretty stone from the edge of the pool. (I still had the stone, though, and I remember Qui-Gon gravely agreeing that it was almost worth falling in for.) He listened, as seriously as if I had been grown up, and stroked my hair. _You would make a good kitten, minx. One only has to rub you the right way and you start purring at once_. I don't usually like people touching my hair, but Qui-Gon's not just _people_ ; he's special. 

On its own, it was a good memory, a sweet, safe memory; in the circumstances, it burned like a 'saber cut. After a few minutes, I noticed that Xan had stopped working on the hydraulics and sat staring at me.

"I'm fine," I whispered, and picked up a hydrospanner, to start putting the landing gear back in its proper compartment under the engines. Wave passed and survived. Keep going.

Then Obi-Wan turned up in the hangar. He pretended not to notice what we were doing, though that must have been difficult, because there were bits of hydraulic systems all over the floor.

"Xan, Sriel," he called. "You know that old saying – about routes – 'if someone tells you a hyperspace lane is mined, it means someone else has already died'?"

"I might," I said, wary. "Who died?"

"A shuttle carrying relief crew from Coruscant to a battle station out near Moddel hit a mine. No survivors."

"Feemor?" Xan asked quietly.

" _All_ on board were killed, Xanatos," snapped the Great Negotiator, the Councilor, very stiffly and properly valuing no life above any other, and then, "Yes, Feemor is dead," confirmed Obi-Wan, with the flat misery that the family know means he's working hard to keep up an inflexible control until he can be alone.

"Right." Xan squeezed my shoulder, and I didn't mind about the smears of black oil that had been on his hands and were now on my tunic. "I guess it's just us now, kid. Until Qui-Gon comes home."

"There's no 'until'," Obi-Wan corrected automatically. "But it is just you. Tahl's been given a short-notice intel station posting out at Saleucami, and Bruck's gone with her."

"And you?" I'd only that moment noticed that Obi-Wan had his cloak on and his pack slung over his shoulder.

"Sempidal. The fighting has gotten worse out in the north rim, and the Chancellor in his wisdom has asked the Council to send someone there to take charge. I hate to put it like this, but… Qui-Gon Jinn leaving the Order is the least of our problems right now."

I hated that he'd put it like that too, but Obi-Wan's right. Komari Vosa is still somewhere in the Galaxy nursing a grudge against both Dooku and the Order. Dex is missing and I have seven days to find him. The war is snatching away more Jedi than we can spare – they're sending _Kijé_ on station – he's leaving tonight. And we have no idea who Sidious is or how it knew to send Komari after Breha Organa. And if I didn't know better I'd swear the Chancellor is trying to kill us all, one deadly mission or disastrous skirmish at a time.

Obi-Wan shrugged, and headed off to the next hangar bay. Since he and Ben were taking a G-class light shuttle instead of his own fighter – which lives next to _Morningstar_ – I figured things at Sempidal were worse than he was letting on. Losing a shuttle is no big problem. Losing Obi-Wan's fighter, with all the modifications he and Anakin have made to it, and all the coordinate metadata in the navcom, would be a huge problem – so I could tell he expected things to be bad enough that there was a significant chance of crashing, losing, or otherwise writing off a ship.

"May the Force be with you, Bi-An!" I called.

"And with you, Sriel." I could have sworn he had added under his breath, "And Qui-Gon," but it could have been my imagination.

So Xan and I put the landing gear back together, pristine, oiled, and bloodless; and set out for Ojom.

 _Later_ : I don't think I've been here before. I mean, I've traveled so much I couldn't be sure, but I think I would have remembered the climate. It's cold – about negative-five degrees – and hazily humid, but the sunlight… it's strong and filling, without being glaringly bright or particularly warm. I have so much energy here that I surprise myself. No, I'm quite sure I haven't been here: if I had, I would have spent all my time asking to come back.

Xanatos doesn't like it at all. He says it's too cold, and too bright, and he doesn't like the thick air. Although we started out on one of the dozens of space stations orbiting the world, it took about an hour (and a quick check of a local directory – my Besalisk is awful, but enough to match a grid reference to a name) before I started telling Xan we _really_ needed to be down on the planet.

On all of Ojom, there is exactly one family of Jettsters, part of a community of about a thousand living on a glacier near the equator. So said the first person we spoke to planetside, a gregarious woman in a polar settlement, who gesticulated to illustrate her meaning – having four arms, a Besalisk woman can do a lot of gesticulating! Our friendly informant offered to take Xanatos and me to the equatorial settlement in her own transport – she owed Dex's brother some money, and thought he would be less annoyed about the late repayment if she came accompanied by two Jedi.

The mystery of _where-is-Dex_ turned out not to be much of a mystery: he had come home to visit his family, because he hadn't been back to Ojom since moving to Coruscant twenty-five years ago. Nobody bothered asking 'why now?' because the one thing you have to know about Besalisks is that they will go where they want, when they want, and usually have no particular reason. I suppose it's a kind of wanderlust, and Force knows I understand that well enough.

"So," Dex asked, once we'd tracked him down, "I know you both, but you seem to be missing someone – where is he?"

"What makes you think we didn't come _without_ him?" I shot back.

"I left the address for him and nobody else – Qui-Gon has the manners not to bother people except in an emergency." Stooping to study my face, Dex added, "Though by the looks of you, perhaps I should have said, ' _had_ the manners'."

"It's not quite that bad," Xanatos cut in.

"Hmm. Is it not, now?" Dex turned my head so Xan could see me. "She thinks it is. Well, the old reprobate was fond of you kids" – I think Dex is actually younger than Xan – "so I'll help you for that. If he's dead, you'll need it. If he's not, and he's missing... you'll need it more. What can I do?"

"We just need you to come back and talk to Jango Fett," I said. "He says you know where to find someone he's looking for."

Dex nodded, his neck-pouch – _wattle_ , Besalisks call it – swelling in concern. "Don't sell your soul to Jango Fett, kid. You won't get return on the investment." But at least he agreed to come to Coruscant with us – because "I don't see how it will help, but if you say it will... well, Qui-Gon didn't raise you to be a liar or stupid. I'll trust you on this one."

On the way home, aboard _Morningstar_ , Dex flew copilot, playing the controls like a musical instrument and making the ship sing for him. It's the only kind of music I understand. I sat on the floor between the seats, watching the stars. We were passing Vulpter, a golden blob in the distance, when Xanatos turned to glare at Dex and me.

"Okay, you two. I give up. What clue did Nasriel find in the cantina?"

"Passport renewal form from the Ojom consulate," I said

"That told you to look offworld," Dex rumbled. "What else?"

"A flimsi map of the Galaxy on the office desk, showing average jump-times to different planets, and a pair of compasses on the windowsill, fixed to the exact distance between Coruscant and Ojom."

"And Qui-Gon would have known that," Xan murmured, almost talking to himself.

"Qui-Gon wouldn't have needed the map," I replied, hearing the wistfulness in my own voice. "But I did it. In the end." Dex wanted Qui-Gon to be able to find him, and made his trail subtle enough that nobody else should have been. So I must be a fair tracker in my own right. I'm diplomatic, or I wouldn't have talked so many people into letting me be here. Unorthodox, to be even considering enlisting Jango's help. And developing a willingness to ignore the Council's wishes when I feel it is right.

For the first time in my life, I am _afraid_ of growing up to be like Qui-Gon.


	25. Chapter 25

When we were heading home aboard _Morningstar_ , Senator Organa called, on Anakin's accursed comm system that can take calls in hyperspace. Seems Bi-An told Organa to contact me with a list of people who knew ahead of time about Breha's birthday concert, because the people on the list, and anyone they told, could have told Dooku what time to reset Komari's bomb for in order to kill Breha. Inference: one of the people on the list, whether knowingly or not, is a Separatist spy. The problem is that this list is pages long, and even with my limited experience in the diplomatic circuit, I can tell it includes half the Senate and most of the upper nobility of Alderaan. And frankly, I'm more interested in finding out who sent Komari after Breha Organa at all – because that's Sidious.

I was staring at the list on the _Morningstar_ 's viewscreen, wondering where to start, when Senator Organa asked suddenly, "Is Master Jinn there?" I don't know what line Bi-An spun him to have him call _me_ , but apparently the line didn't include any information on what's been going on in the Temple over the last few days.

"He's not available at the moment; can I take a message?" And then it hit me: I have a hundred separate and distinct memories of fielding calls from the Council, using those exact words, and then shutting off the transmission to grin back at Qui-Gon. I always picked up the comms when we were expecting a Council call, but... _then_ I wasn't lying. 'Not available' is not the same as 'not here' – a distinction that the Council took an amazingly long time to recognize, and that Senator Organa didn't notice either.

We got home, back under gritty clouds of Coruscant, and I called Jango to have him meet us at Dex's cantina.

"You owe me now," I told him, when he had what he needed from Dex, when Xan and I were going back up to the Temple.

"I do that," Jango promised, and even though I'm sure he could have found Dex by himself, well, that is the price he agreed to, and I have paid it, and I will hold him to it.

At the quarter door – the quarters where I have lived for the past six years, and visited on and off for years before that – Xan laid his hand on my arm.

"How are we going to do this, Sriel?" He sounded almost worried; I'm not used to Xan being worried. Reckless, yes.

"Do what?"

"Well... you can't move in with me, because we can't kick Bruck out until he gets home to move his stuff... and I wouldn't feel right moving into Qui-Gon's room... shall we just stay where we are, and we can decide what to do when the rest of the family gets home?"

So Xan went off to his own quarters, in the next corridor over, and I ventured into the cool, mute twilight of home. I made tea – because that's my chore in the evenings; I make the tea – but I forgot what I was doing and made enough for three, as usual. I drank two cups, sitting on the sofa, feeling sorry for myself, and poured the excess over the roots of the candy-paper plant. It _seemed_ grateful, I guess. By the time I was ready for bed, the silence was starting to get to me, so I went to find Telcontir, who looks after all the unofficial Temple pets while their owners are away, and borrowed Blaze again, for company. Blaze is about twice my size, and remarkably relaxed about being borrowed – and Tahl always complains bitterly about shaggy hairy wastes of space lying around waiting to be tripped on, but she's not home.

That was last night. This morning I met Xan in the refectory – he getting breakfast proper, I having a cup of caf. After the wonderful sunshine at Ojom, I won't need to eat anything for days, and I don't much like breakfast food anyway.

"Sriel," Xan said, pausing halfway through a bowl of oatmeal, "would you mind if we used Jango's debt to you on something else?"

"What?"

"Finding Komari again. Look," he coaxed, "Komari was Jedi as well, and – forgive me, Sriel – _she_ didn't choose to leave and join the Dark Side and lie to us all about it for years."

"I guess not," I said flatly. It's true, what Xan said. Dooku disowned Komari and let the Council send her away, all because she loved him and didn't trouble to hide it. I wonder, am I really so much better than Komari? Or am I merely, as she herself said, luckier?

Consider: I love Qui-Gon as if he were my father, and better than I loved my real father. I always thought that was only reasonable. That I was better than Komari because Dooku was despicable and Qui-Gon is not – extension: her love, her hero-worship of her Master was foolish, and mine is not. But perhaps…

Perhaps she wasn't a fool after all. Perhaps, once, Dooku was as good and kind and noble as Qui-Gon. I don't want to think too hard about the obvious flip-side of that _perhaps_ : the idea that Qui-Gon might someday – might already! – be as cruel and ruthless as Dooku.

I asked Xan about that, what Dooku used to be like. He laid down his spoon and shook his head slowly. "Sweet child. As if Qui-Gon hasn't told you a hundred times."

"He never," I said. "It was like Dooku didn't exist except as quarry."

"Well. Master Dooku, when I knew him, was brilliant. Brilliant swordsman, brilliant diplomat, could convince anyone of anything. But dear Force, he was cold. If killing someone ensured the rapid success of a mission for him, that person didn't have long to live. He could wait forever to get what he wanted, but he had no patience with _people_ ; rarely let you get away unpunished for a mistake, and Force help anyone who made the same slip twice _._ Dooku demanded perfection – from himself as well as others, mind you. But if he could make someone else take the blame when he wasn't perfect... well. Komari trotted around after him and he either ignored her or ripped into her for messing up – no middle ground. I used to think Qui-Gon hated Dooku's guts; took me years to work out it was actually the other way around. But. This is no topic for an open refectory. Talk it out at my place?"

"But I haven't finished my caf."

"Bring it." He poked his oatmeal dubiously. "This isn't burnt today – miraculous – pity to waste it – come on, minx, we shall decamp, breakfast and all."

I decided that that was enough. "Do not _ever_ call me that again, Xanatos DuCrion. You're my Master for now, but _that_ is not your place."

Picking up his bowl and ignoring the serving droid's haughty glare, Xan tapped me on the head with the spoon from my caf. "Sorry, Sriel. Been a while since I had a Padawan. Been longer still since the time I nearly punched Feemor's face in for calling me a nuisance. Wasn't his place either. I understand, kid."

Although I had known the habit of bizarre nicknames was older than me, I hadn't realized it went back to Xanatos. A tantalizingly vivid scene flicked past my imagination: on mission, Xan dawdling, Qui-Gon calling good-humoredly _come along, nuisance_. 

In the present, as if he had seen the same image, Xanatos laughed. "No. Rarely so civil – we fought constantly. Mostly about decisions he'd made and I demanded he explain. Often about Komari and Dooku. I'd say _for Force sake, Master, you can see what's happening – someday he'll kill her – why don't you say something; why don't you stop this?_ He didn't explain until after she was gone: that he knew even better than I did how bad things were for Komari, and had _offered_ to go to the Council on her behalf. She declined – didn't want to be the Padawan who instigated an action against her Master. That's a species nobody will train."

I guess it was then that I realized Xan wasn't telling me something. "You and Komari were friends. Close friends, like Kijé and me. And you still want to help her."

"I hate to make you pay for it," Xan hedged. "But..."

"It's okay, Xan. I can find Qui-Gon without Jango's help. If you feel it's that important to find Komari, then... sure, go for it." And then I remembered something. That Komari was responsible for the death of Bail Organa's wife, and a dozen or more of the Alderaanian nobility. "Xan, if we send Jango after her, we'll have to go along. As soon as she's recognized in Republic territory, she'll be arrested. We can't lawfully stop that, but she shouldn't have to be alone either."

When Xan called Jango to ask if he could find Komari again, Boba answered the comm. It seemed Dex's information was good, and Jango was downtown with his former mentor, leaving Boba alone on Slave One.

"Are you okay on your own?" Xan asked Boba. When he turned back to flash an awkward grin at me, I realized I must have been gaping in astonishment. Typically disinclined to interfere uninvited, most Jedi will go their whole lives without ever asking someone else's child if he is all right. A stray, an abandoned orphan, someone who has nobody to care for them, sure. But you don't meddle with other people's children, and you don't meddle with other people's Padawans.

It turned out just as well Xanatos asked, though, because after a moment, Boba replied, "I'm kind of scared – Dad's never left me on my own in the Core before. Is that girl there? The blue girl? Um... I think her name's Minx. Can – can I come to the Temple?"

"If your father wouldn't mind, then of course you can," Xan assured him. "Remember to let him know where you are. Tell him he can he call anyone in the Temple and ask for DuCrion; they'll put him through." Cutting the link, he said defensively, "He's _eleven_ , Sriel." Xan's a funny one – he doesn't say a lot, and most of it is terrifyingly pragmatic, so you'd think he was absolutely heartless. And then he goes and does something like that.

Boba arrived aboard one of the cheap airbuses that endanger the upper-level roadways, and he and I spent the afternoon down on the shooting range, testing some new pistols a Sentinel team had brought from Ord Paidron. When Xan called to summon us back upstairs, we were in Kijé's room with the rest of the gang, passing around a canister of highly suspect ice-cream that Elimyo had made in a spare liquid-nitrogen dewar from the labs, and watching reruns of Greatest Corellian Hero.

Boba and I got to Xan's quarters to find that Jango and his mentor, a tall, taciturn, white-haired Human who introduced himself as Wilse, were already there.

Pulling Boba to him and ruffling the boy's hair affectionately, Jango said to me, "This DuCrion reckons he's your Master."

"At the moment, he's right."

With a quiet grin, suggesting he knew he was getting Xan into trouble, the bounty-hunter continued, "He reckons that lets him use your hunting contract to find someone other than Master Jinn, which is what you were talking about wanting it for."

"It doesn't give him the right to dispose of my possessions, if that's what you mean." I knew _that_ from when my father died and the Council ruled it none of Qui-Gon's business what I did with my considerable inheritance. (I'd taken his advice anyway.) "However, Mr. Fett, I would like you to discharge your debt to me by finding Komari Vosa and allowing me to accompany you on the search."

"Your contract, your choice, kid, but… I'd be a happier man if you were trying to find Master Jinn. Since he's like family to you and all." I'd forgotten about the Mando'a preoccupation with family ties, and about how odd this sudden change of quarry would look to Jango.

"I can find Qui-Gon alone easier than I can find Komari alone, and anyway, Komari _is_ family. As you said: my contract, my choice."

We're leaving at first light the day after tomorrow. Jango and Wilse have 'something to deal with in town' and I only hope it isn't trying to kill a Senator like the time we Jedi first became aware of Jango. But that was Padmé, who's pretty hard to kill at the best of times and had Obi-Wan and Anakin looking after her besides. (Hope Obi-Wan's all right out at Sempidal.)

And Xan's going on a bender with some of the guys from Ninth Lower – they've been planning it for months. So Boba will stay in the Temple and we'll keep each other company until the adults are ready to leave.

I suppose it's good, this filling in the time until I can go looking for my Master. I was raised to be a tracker and a diplomat: I can be patient. I have to be. But I'm nervous, now this hunt for Komari is taking away my fallback option – I have to be able to do this alone now. Our bond is silent. Qui-Gon's not letting me know even roughly where he is, or if he's okay. My only certainty is that he is not dead, and I am clinging to that for all I am worth.


	26. Chapter 26

Qui-Gon no longer knows exactly where he is – a sensation novel and unpleasant, not least because he is, once again, entirely at Dooku's mercy: he has a lifetime's worth of memories to warn him that this is a dangerous place to be.

On a cold, unknown planet, Dooku's men have captured a small Republic base – an outpost, really. The few personnel manning the outpost lie in an untidy heap on the frozen ground outside, cut down by blasterfire. In the command center, Dooku holds the sole survivor at 'saber-point, and promises her her life if she can tell him what he wants to know.

She can't.

A faint cold smile creeps across the Separatist leader's face, and he turns to Qui-Gon, who stands motionless by the door, arms folded, neither interfering nor collaborating in what is passing here.

"Kill her."

When the Republic soldier's gaze flicks across to Qui-Gon, he notices that she is a blue-skinned Pantoran, and not more than twenty-five Standard years old. She has huge golden eyes in a sharp-boned face, and at present, they are liquid with tears and glowing with a devastating mixture of terror and wild hope. A week ago, he was on the same side as this doomed woman.

Shaking his head, very slightly, he sees Dooku's smile vanish, and realizes a moment too late that he has probably just committed suicide. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ , he rages silently at himself, but what else could he do? The red lightsaber blade glides back into its hilt – it won't be a clean death, then. A long moment of fear, watching filmy cobwebs of blue lightning shimmer around the Sith lord's hands – he has long, graceful, deceptively delicate-looking fingers, but Qui-Gon has an idea of how many people those hands have killed. At least _murdered by Count Dooku_ will put him in good company.

Stillness, listening to the Republic soldier's uneven breathing, barely audible over the scream of the wind outside the door and the hiss of unnatural lightning echoing around the room.

* * *

Yesterday dragged terrifyingly slow. Elimyo still has the keycode to Kijé's room, so Boba and I could have gone there and watched archived holomovies all day if we'd wanted. But Boba was sleepy – from what he's said, I gather he and Jango are usually nocturnal away from Kamino – and I was restless. No word from Kijé or Tahl on station. No word, even from the HoloNet, about the situation out of Sempidal. Bruck could be anywhere. Qui-Gon could be anywhere. I don't even know where Xan is, and for all I can learn from the Force I may as well be blind in a void of screaming silence.

Late afternoon, when Boba was napping on my bed, with Blaze sitting sentry beside him, dark 'kurra eyes locked on his sleeping face, I realized what the matter is.

I'm not used to having a full day's warning of a mission. This has only happened a few times in my life, and I was racking my brains to remember how I used to cope with the fidgety impatience of _waiting to leave_.

I used to fight. Take all the nervous energy and channel it into swordplay – Qui-Gon's idea, and probably not something I'd have thought of myself. He used to order me down to the dojo, and join me there if he had time, or send Anakin to keep me occupied if he didn't. Yesterday I didn't know where Anakin was either, so I went down, leaving Blaze to watch Boba, and activated every training remote I could find.

Living in the brief calm of the moment, my lightsaber and I danced, with ten droids moving around us like hummingbirds, now hovering, now darting, loosing blaster bolts at half-power and at gradually decreasing intervals. Safe enough that I wouldn't be killed, but dangerous enough that I could forget, for a while, all that was worrying me. In its own way, it worked. After half an hour I was worrying about whether I could take out the remaining seven droids with deflections of their own bolts before my clothes got badly enough burned for Xan to notice.

Just as I was coming to the conclusion _no_ , something resembling a streak of violet lightning swirled across the dojo, flicking blaster bolts around like so many marbles on the floor of the younglings' crèche, knocking all the remotes out of orbit in a matter of seconds. And then Master Windu stood frowning down at me, purple lightsaber humming inactive in his hand. His bald head glistened with sweat, and he wiped it off with his sleeve.

"If you wanted a sparring partner, you only had to ask."

"And you'd have agreed to duel with a junior Padawan, just like that?"

"Are you looking for a fight or aren't you?" Master Windu demanded, dialing his 'saber back to half-power and swinging it lazily in a slow arc.

I may have said _en garde_ before launching into a rapid-fire Ataru attack – I don't remember, but hope I did, because Master Windu is something of a stickler for procedure, and usually expects Padawans he's coaching to _salute_ each other before beginning. That day, he didn't object, just countered everything I could throw at him. I could feel my mouth drawing back, my teeth baring in something between a snarl and a weird, determined smile, and my breath fizzing hard and fast in and out between them.

Force, Master Windu was terrifying. Not obviously fast-moving... but he seemed to think four moves ahead and know where I'd be. I'd block a strike, use all my power to force the purple blade back, and find it a moment later twisted around, hissing hotly a few millimeters from my face. Or I'd step back from a smooth, deliberate slash at my legs, and Master Windu would swoop his blade around and press my own 'saber back, scorching my arm.

Abruptly, he halted, stepping back and deactivating his 'saber. "Jinn taught you how to fight and it shows. You're trying to use strength you don't have, and you're not using assets you do have. Your size, for one."

I was doubled over trying to breathe normally again, and that last strike had hit close enough that it will look truly interesting by tonight, but I laughed. "I don't _have_ any size. If I had any size, I'd use it."

"Exactly. A dozen times, you could have ducked under my guard, or danced right over the top, and you chose to block instead. You fight like Qui-Gon. You're too light and fast to keep doing that, and not strong enough. Talk to Yoda. He can teach you to fly."

I didn't want to – I thought Master Yoda was less likely to teach me to fly around the dojo, how to be everywhere and nowhere like he can, than he was to scold me about the perils of the Dark Side until I wished I'd defied Xan and gone on to Corellia after all. No more Yoda, no more Windu, no more Council... but I promised Qui-Gon to stay.

"I'll talk to him," I said lightly. Master Windu trying to take my mind off things... kind of him, I supposed, but I found myself wishing he'd just drop the act and _scold_ me already – that's what I'm used to from the Council. This bizarre niceness unnerved me.

He sighed. "I won't make some pointed remark about the pain of attachment, as you seem to expect. I imagine you understand it all too well." Glancing past me to the chrono on the wall, he said, "I have to go. May the Force be with you, Padawan Threeb... in whatever you do next."

When Xanatos got home I told him Master Windu had given his blessing to our search for Komari. Because that's what I'm doing next. I don't know how clearly Xan understood me, though, because he'd been out with a party of young Sentinels and was as drunk as a Jedi can get – not that that's much.

Jango was stone cold sober when he came for Boba, late last night, and stone cold when we met him and Wilse at Slave One's dock in the public hangar downtown this morning. Xan's still not quite himself: not hungover, just a bit fuzzy, and worried about Komari. Jango says he has brought us along unwillingly, but since he has, as agreed, brought us, we are to ask as few questions as possible and stay on the ship when told. I was happy enough to agree to his terms... and it is my contract.

* * *

The Pantoran woman writhes on the cold floor, as the lightning roars around her. After a while, but still nearly half an hour ago, Dooku became tired of her screaming and cut out her tongue. When that had no effect beyond adding a bloody drowning gurgle to the voice of her agony, he shrugged, drove his knife into her belly, and went back to what he was doing.

Regardless of what he would personally prefer to do, Qui-Gon could not save her now.

At length, she stops screaming. Satisfied, Dooku withdraws the lightning and retreats, to stand beside Qui-Gon, his back to the half-open door. For a few minutes, they watch the dying Republic soldier in silence. Only the gargle of her labored breaths and the regular little _gush-gush-gush_ of blood from her half-open mouth betray the spark of life still in her.

"That was unnecessary," Qui-Gon says coolly. Necessity and civilization are Dooku's gods; he does nothing without a bow to one or the other. "Unnecessary and barbaric."

"It was," the older man agrees. "I only told you to kill her. But since it apparently amuses you to watch a pretty girl being tortured to death..." Without finishing his sentence, he turns and swishes out the door.

Qui-Gon crosses the small room and crouches beside Dooku's latest victim. She is, as he surmised, beyond help. Avoiding meeting her unfocused stare, he pulls out Dooku's knife, spilling a splash of hot blue blood over the floor; remembers suddenly that Pantorans have their hearts on the _right_ ; and stabs. As the knife slides smoothly in between the woman's ribs, her pulse and the slimy gurgle of blood in her throat cease forever.

Dropping the knife back into the pool of blood, where it falls with a viscous _splash_ , he solemnly closes the soldier's golden eyes, and goes after Dooku. There is blood, thick, cold, and slippery, on his hands, and scrubbing at it with a fistful of snow makes little difference. He should probably get used to it.

* * *

Wilse was flying copilot for Jango until we reached Kohlma, when he came down to the hold where Boba and I were playing sabaac.

"Your Master DuCrion is going with Jango on-world, on account of the Bando Gora crew running this place having Force powers. I'm staying here, and you can deal me into the next hand."

I discovered many years ago that under some circumstances, sabaac can be a shorthand – often underhand – way of picking up valuable information about your fellow players. There are a dozen different ways of playing your cards, each with its own distinctive features and its own name. Qui-Gon invariably plays the Wanderer, with its patternless pattern and quiet surprises, and usually wins. Among strangers, Obi-Wan plays the Rogue, but at home he plays the Child, a game that pretends to be inept, but, played by an adult, reveals itself as an elaborate trick. I don't stick religiously to one sabaac character – I'll play the Pirate or the Slave if I think I have a chance of winning, but if Qui-Gon or Xan is in the game, I always play the Queen – because it's the most fun I can have losing.

Boba played the Wanderer as well, and it almost hurt to watch the cards glide from his fingers. Wilse played something I hadn't seen before, sneaking up behind other hands and destroying them with the high _life_ cards. At least he has a tell, of sorts – he wears a black leather patch over his right eye, and though he's told Boba and me eight different stories about how he lost his eye, the one constant – which he _didn't_ tell us – is that he slips one finger under the patch to rub at the eye-socket, when he's under stress… or thinks he's trapped someone's cards.

"What do you call your play?" I asked. "I thought I'd seen them all."

"Little girls should not frequent gambling dens," Wilse smiled darkly, stroking his short white beard. "Let's call it the Terminator." And then he took out my best card and won all the matchsticks.

Xan's comm rang in his rucksack, and I got up to answer it, leaving my cards face-up to signal I was done with the round. Next time, so help me, I swear I will play Obi-Wan's Rogue and… Obi-Wan was on the line; on a muted call, luckily, so Wilse and Boba didn't hear anything.

Bi-An didn't wait for me to say anything, just started talking as soon as he heard the channel open. "DuCrion, go upstairs and talk to Anakin. I'm at Sempidal or… no, don't talk to the boy, _strangle_ him for me."

"Bi-An, what happened?" I said.

"Oh." He sounded non-plussed. "Where's Xan?"

"Long story. What's Ani done this time?"

"What _hasn't_ he done?" the Councilor muttered. "He's hacked a door code, stolen a letter – what the blue Wilds is a _Taharat_ when it's at home anyway? – and confessed to Tahl, who made him call me, that he's married to Padmé Amidala and has been for over a year. And I, fool that I am, thought he deserved the chance nobody gave me, and offered to get him a dispensation from the Council. I – in Qui-Gon's absence, Xan's the oldest. I need to talk to him, Sriel; where is he?"

"Not here. What do you mean, nobody gave you a chance?"

"Longer story. But… well. Padmé is still alive and I hope for Anakin's sake she will remain so for many years to come. I'll… I'll inform Tahl she has my permission to tell you about Satine when you get home, all right? Not over an open link, Sriel, not when I'm on station, don't ask that of me. May the Force be with you," he said quickly, and cut off the link. Sometimes Bi-An resembles a holocron, a hundred thousand layers where you have to _earn_ the right to see into each one.

I set down the comlink and headed up into the cockpit to write, figure things out on paper, leaving Boba and Wilse playing another hand of sabaac. They both had the discretion not to ask me where I was going.


	27. Chapter 27

Xan and Jango came back about an hour ago, at midnight, with Komari walking between them. Her hands were stun-cuffed in front of her, but Xan had his arm around her shoulders.

As soon as I saw them from the cockpit, I hurried down to the hatch, disrupting Boba and Wilse's game in the hold along the way. "She just agreed to come?" I asked Xan.

"I was a Jedi once," Komari answered me. "It's too late for me to be a Jedi again, but never too late to do the right thing. All I needed was the courage." She sighed, glancing back into the night out of which they had come. I thought I saw a spark of blue light out there, but it could have been my imagination.

"Fortune favors the brave." I didn't know what else to say. Komari's walked away from everything she's ever known, twice now, and this time she _knows_ it won't end well. That – _that_ is brave. If only I'd had the guts to do the same I might be with Qui-Gon now instead of just wandering around the Galaxy feeling lost and pointless.

"I've appointed a successor to lead the Bando Gora; there's no going back for me now," Komari said. "You'll visit me sometimes, won't you, Xan?"

"As often as I can," he promised. "Because it's Breha Organa you killed, you'll – you'll only be at Alderaan, after all."

When we got back aboard Slave One, Wilse disagreed. Springing to his feet the moment he saw Komari with Jango, he reached back for the sword slung across his back, but checked himself just shy of drawing it, and turned on Jango instead.

" _Fett, tion gar nakar'mir – dala rukyr'amur solet be cuun aliit_?" For some reason that hadn't occurred to me – the Galidraan massacre where Komari and Dooku between them killed over a hundred Mandalorians was so long ago that I'd forgotten it would still matter to an older man like Wilse.

" _Nayc_ ," Jango cut him off. " _Ni nu draar copaanir._ "

" _Gar enteyor kyr'amur kaysh, Jango. Gar partaylir ibac._ " I was half afraid Jango might rise to that one and shoot Komari where she stood, but he scowled at Wilse.

" _Ni linibar dala oyayc. Kaysh ner verborir_." Suddenly the scowl dissolved into a nasty grin. " _Bal be'jetii ade jorhaa'ir Mando'a._ " Without changing language, he called to me, " _Tion vaii mhi hiibir gar Bando Gora dala? Gar verborir, ade_."

"Alderaan," I said, trying not to enjoy Wilse's surprise too much. " _Mhi vaii slanar at Alderaan._ Senator Organa has half a million credits for the man who brings him Komari Vosa." Wilse decided that half a million credits would go a long way toward appeasement for Komari's past crimes, and we set off.

Reaching Alderaan just before dawn this morning, after a full day in hyperspace trying to catch up on sleep, the guys tacitly worked out that Jango would go on-world, take Komari to Bail, and of course Xan would go with him. But when they were just about to leave, I remembered something and drew Xan aside.

"Don't let Jango go. Bail will hold him just as much to blame as Komari."

"Oh, _Force_. Yes. I'll ask him to send Wilse instead." Xan paused, as if what he was about to say wasn't something he wanted to say, and gripped my shoulder with a rough shake that I suppose was meant to be affectionate. "Good save, kiddo. Qui-Gon would have been proud of you."

" _Will be_ ," I insisted. "When I find him again."

"Sriel…" Xan let me go suddenly and sat down on a crate. "I will never – _never_ – tell you to stop hoping, but you have to understand. You might not find Qui-Gon, and even if you do, he might not _be_ Qui-Gon anymore. Don't say anything right now. Just think about it, while I'm on-world with Wilse."

So I sat in the open hatchway of the ship, and thought about it. I was thinking as the sun rose over the plains and lit the tiny grey smudges of cloud high in the sky a brilliant orange, and as the soft fur of silver-grey dew on the grass thinned and sparkled and finally dried away. It was a good sunrise – the burning kind that Qui-Gon would have appreciated. Jango left when the dew did, leaving me and Boba and Slave One landed in the long grass at the quiet end of Alderaan's sprawling spaceport. And now the sun is high, and the air is full of the smell of dry grass and burnt fuel and the sound of thousands of tiny raspy-voiced insects singing. Boba has caught one, and lies in the grass watching it crawl over his hands.

 _Later_ : I ran. I run to clear my head, give me space to think. Sometimes because I'm bored. Sometimes because the weather is so hot and bright, and I have so much energy, I _have_ to run. That day, on the long circuit around the free-landing field, I ran to avoid thinking. When I got back, tired and sweaty and unable to stop turning over what Xanatos had said, the sun was slanting down toward dusk, Jango had reappeared – from an afternoon spent gambling with the crew of another ship – and Xan and Wilse were crossing the field toward us, silhouettes against the sky, with long black shadows flung out before them. Wilse tossed a hard plastic bank chit to Jango, who caught it and nodded in satisfaction.

"Hitchless?"

"Entirely," smiled Wilse.

"Good. I'll take you home," Jango said to me, "and then we're done. I'm grateful to you for putting me onto that reward, though, so if I hear anything of Master Jinn, I'll let you know."

It was already dark when Xan and I got back to the Temple – on foot, because Jango had dropped us at the spaceport and because the nearest airbus stop to the Temple is over a kilometer from the main gates. The gatekeeper rummaged among the messages on his board, and muttered that Master Kenobi had left word for us to report to him in his quarters as soon as possible.

" _Possible_ ," grouched Xan. "Not _practical_. Which means we don't get to go home and clean up first." It had been a long trip, and I knew he was still agonizing over whether he'd done the right thing by Komari. Nobody ever said life in this family would be _easy_.

Obi-Wan opened the door at first knock. He was limping, and clean-shaven, with a new gash, stitched and beginning to heal, on his cheek. I mistook him for Ben for a moment, and Xan snapped out of his mood long enough to laugh.

"Told, Kenobi. She's right, you look every day of sixteen."

"I'm sure you're very glad that's not a problem you have to consider any more," Bi-An said evenly, brushing aside a lock of hair that wasn't really on his face to start with. Xan scowled again – he has a streak of pure white running back from his forehead, and doesn't like it one bit.

"Cute. What do you want that you were in such a hurry about?"

"I need to talk to Sriel. _You_ can go away and... dye your hair if it makes you happy."

When Xan had stormed off, I said quietly, "Are you okay?" Not because of the damage – this was barely a graze by Obi-Wan standards – but because he's usually so considerate, usually wouldn't send for someone until they'd been home at least an hour.

"We won Sempidal back. Lost... forty-two men. Ben got himself trapped in a burning hovertank and is in the medcenter. Me – this was just shrapnel." He grinned crookedly, rubbing at the cut on his face. "Quite a lot of shrapnel. I used all the negotiation tactics I know on Vokara, just to get home. Oh, and the court finally reached a verdict this morning, if Sarathpas is to be believed."

"What verdict?" _Please, please, if there's any justice, lock them all away until the stars implode, don't let them hurt anyone else_. 

"Well, I don't know, I haven't seen the footage yet. I was waiting for you." Obi-Wan fetched a data chip from his desk and clipped it into the holoprojector. Before activating the recording, though, he glanced at me. "Are you ready?"

"I don't have to watch it, do I?" Even frozen still, the blue holo of the courtroom – judges' bench, lawyers' corrals, witness stand now empty, dock definitely not – chilled me. Let the picture start moving, let it come to life, and I'd be back there, in the stand, feeling all those eyes raking me with hungry stares.

"Don't you want to –"

"No! I'm sorry, Bi-An, I know I'm being such a coward, but _please_..."

"It's all right, you can just listen if you want."

So I sat on the floor and hugged Blaze and listened to the chief justice's voice droning on and Bi-An's pen whispering across a sheet of paper, noting down names and sentences. Eventually the judge said the name of Fourth-row-far-left, and the pen whisper paused for a moment, before meticulously adding the name to the list.

"...found by a jury of your peers to be guilty on counts of assault and rape; sentenced to life imprisonment," growled the judge on the recording, and then went on to the next name. The pen clattered to the table, and Obi-Wan suddenly turned the recording off.

"That's – life, that's good, isn't it?" I didn't understand what had prompted this reaction. "Isn't it good?"

"No – no, Sriel, it's not good, and... life doesn't mean life," he explained, muffled, face in hands. "'Life without parole' means life. 'Life' usually means about ten years."

"That's not fair!"

"No, it's not fair. It's also wrong and unjust. The others... the judges were sane. A lot of 'life without parole', one or two 'death', for the ones who murdered. But our mutual nightmare will be on the streets again by the time you're twenty-six."

"At least..." I came to stand next to him. "At least he doesn't know who you are anymore." I think it was then I noticed – Obi-Wan was frightened. I couldn't tell whether he was frightened now, or just reliving something he didn't want to. Then something clicked, and I saw: he was mostly afraid for Ben, who everybody always says is the exact image of his uncle at the same age. "Ben will be grown up by then. And ten years… it's a while. I'll have time to grow up too, before he comes after me again." Not that that idea didn't turn my guts to ice.

"Don't be so hopeless; he's not _going_ to come after you. For Force sake, child," Obi-Wan said in exasperation. He was about to start saying something else, but I interrupted.

" _I'm_ being hopeless?" I spat. " _You're_ the one going full-on kriffing gloom-mongering. And _you_ only had to deal with that one _demagolka_ for ten minutes, twenty kriffing _years_ ago. Me? I lost count of them after the first day. Every day. Every _day_ he – and all of them – were torturing me, and – and – know what, stuff you, Kenobi. Yeah, you had some chizzk times, and yeah, Qui-Gon wasn't there for you when you needed him to be, and I'm just _sure_ that's messed you up for life, you precious fragile kriffing angel, but guess what? Same deal here, only I haven't been _allowed_ to go all to pieces. I haven't had time." Deep down, I knew perfectly well I was going completely off the handle and Bi-An had done nothing to deserve it, but mostly I just knew what an evil relief it was to lash out at someone.

"Sriel…"

"Yeah, it surely does suck to be you. It sucks _chizzk_ to be me. My Master's probably turned Dark – I know he's not at Thalassia, you don't have to pretend for me anymore – and I'm stuck with _Xanatos_. And I testified in open court so now every yrelt who dodged arrest knows exactly who to come after – and Jedi kriffing composure be damned, I'm _scared_. And I can't even pull Jango in for help finding Qui-Gon, I'm on my own. And I was involved in Breha Organa's murder even if nobody knows it yet. And in the middle of the whole _osik'la_ that's slavery, I caught something deadly that _killed my baby_. The one single solitary half-decent thing to come out of the whole kriff-up is dead and rotten and I am more alone now than I was at Chu'unthor. You know _nothing_ , you arrogant, patronizing _hedyen_."

Obi-Wan waited until I had finished and was lying on the floor sobbing into Blaze's thick fur, before saying evenly, "You are being singularly unpleasant today, and I don't doubt you'll regret it in the morning, but I'm going to disregard every insult you've thrown at me, as you're not sober at present. It's all right to be upset, but not to take it out on other people. Life is tough, Sriel. So of course you know what we have to be."

"Tougher," I muttered.

"Correct. Go home and get some sleep." Obi-Wan sighed, and pulled me to my feet. "Did you find Komari?" he asked, more gently.

"Yeah. She's at Alderaan waiting for her trial there. Xan's pretty cut up about the whole mess."

"I think they used to be friends – back in the day."

"Yeah," I said again. "And Marnle and Lusien are home in Ninth Lower, so he'll be out with them tonight. And… it's not morning, but I'm sorry for being so awful, Bi-An. You didn't have that coming. I was upset, but that's no excuse, because hurting you as well doesn't change it. Can you forgive me?"

"I have as little idea of your problems as you have of mine. You're forgiven." He hugged me, awkwardly, as if he was trying to be comforting and didn't quite know what to do. I guess Ben's more resilient than I am – at the moment – and doesn't go to pieces as easily. I pulled away first, because I could feel my mouth tingling like I was about to cry again, and went off home alone, because I was right, Xan's out downtown with a Sentinel crew.

Tahl was back in quarters, though, her intel posting finished, and the moment I walked in she asked what was wrong: "because I know it's not just Qui being away that's bothering you."

 _Away_. As if it were just another mission. "Oh, I'm fine, Tahl," I said, going to my room and closing the door. There are so many things all weighing down on me, and I didn't want to rip into Tahl the way I had to poor Obi-Wan.

 _Later_ : Xan came by at dawn. We've been given a station posting, leaving tonight. Funny – I can't bring myself to care. I've been holding everything down for so long that now I mostly feel flat and numb. Except for that crack where I tore a strip off Bi-An. I can't believe I never even saw that coming. 'Be mindful of your feelings' indeed.


	28. Chapter 28

The Council sent Xan and me to Sempidal to clear up – two-week posting, they said. Long enough to tidy away any pockets of Sep activity Obi-Wan and Ben might have missed, and to arrange the command handover from Council to regular army. All in all, very _basic_. 

Since we got here last week, that's exactly what we've been doing. Going out in the field, removing a nest of clankers or a gun emplacement, and then slogging ahead to the next place and doing it all over again. Sleeping on the ground, rolled in cloaks – for us – and blankets – for the troopers – and coming back to the base every few days to sleep under canvas for a change. By a large margin, this is the most boring mission I've ever been assigned, and I figure Bi-An had nothing to do with it – it's just Master Windu trying to be kind by giving us a quiet beat. I've been repaying that, in my own way, by practicing flying: by now, I can sweep through a pack of two dozen battle droids without touching the ground once.

When I was with Qui-Gon, we always used to take the missions that nobody else wanted because they were on hot, dry, sun-parched worlds. I loved it – as much as anything, I loved that my Master took the trouble to draw postings to places I could cope with. But... now Qui-Gon has gone off with Dooku, and I'm at Sempidal. Sempidal's cursed with unpredictable thick fog, and filthy weather in between. Long nights, with heavy clouds and heavier rain. Short, wet days, with filtered sunlight like cotton candy: pretty, but not good for much. And cold, cold, _cold_. 

It smells of mud here – mud and fuel smoke and old death. The stink of the earth muffles anything else I might have picked up. I'm sitting under a slowly oozing canvas tent, trying to warm my hands around a cup of hot but insipid caf that tastes of water and smells of _burnt_ , listening to the troopers argue and the rain splash thickly into the viscous soup of muck that passes for ground out here.

In the middle of last night, I woke up to a startlingly luminous, consuming fear, and a whisper of surprise, because while I knew it wasn't mine, it looked – rather, felt – as if I ought to recognize it. I lay awake, listening to the rain, for a few minutes, before realizing I did recognize it; its proper owner just hadn't been around for a long time, and had changed some in the meantime. Rolling off my camp-cot, I crept across the tent to talk to Xanatos.

"Xan?"

"Uhn-hmm."

"DuCrion, wake up. Qui-Gon's in trouble. I promised him that when this happened I'd come find him. Xan?"

"Okay," he mumbled. "Where are we going?"

"I don't know," I said slowly. "I don't think Qui-Gon knows where he is either."

"Well, what did you see? That's good for a start, at least."

"See? Xan, I didn't _see_ anything... what do you mean?"

"You said Qui-Gon was in trouble. I assumed you were basing that conclusion on some form of data. What – did – you – see?"

"Nothing." While I was dimly beginning to understand what Xan meant, it was cold, and dark, and I was tired and hungry and agitated. "I just _know_ , okay? You don't do this to Bi-An when he tells you something."

"Bi-An is thirty-six, and usually has the decency to tell us as much as he can rather than talking nonsense about not seeing anything. I mean, if it was too dark to make out any detail, say so, but –"

"Xan. It wasn't dark. There just wasn't anything."

Sitting up suddenly, Xan regarded me with new interest. "You can't see," he breathed. "Me, Bi‑An, Qui-Gon, Feemor, Bruck – Ani, I guess – we can all _see_ things coming. Sometimes it's fuzzy or dim, but we can see it. You..."

"Please, Xan, I know because _he told me_. And he was... different. Wronger."

"We have to finish our posting before we can even think of moving on, kiddo. If the old man decides to tell you anything else, let me know." And he rolled over and started snoring again. I couldn't sleep anymore, and I slipped out into the mud and cold drizzle of the camp. A few stars gleamed through a rare break in the clouds, and I stood staring up at them, wondering where in the whole wide Galaxy I was supposed to be, until the trooper on sentry duty sent me back to bed.

Xan called home this morning, and by a crazy stroke of chance, connected into the middle of a family conference at Bi-An's place. Ben was home from the medbay, Ani was tinkering with something... it was nice. I wish I could have been there. Although I guess everybody must have been talking about something before we called, Xan just jumped right in and told Bi-An about what I'd said last night.

"Nightmare, Sriel," Bruck commented loftily from out of camera range. "We understand you miss him, but... move on."

"I believe her," Anakin murmured, then appeared suddenly in the holo and said it again, harder, sharper. "I didn't have much more than that to go on when I came to get you from Jabiim, Master. I trust Sriel to know what she's talking about. I owe a lot to Qui-Gon too," he told me. "Let me know what you need me to do."

"Are you listening to this?" exploded Xan. "Kenobi? This is crazy. Qui-Gon was given a choice; he chose to leave; he chose to defy the Council, _again_ , and join Dooku, _again_. Now the kids want to go after a Sith. Obi-Wan, listen to me. You can stop this."

Looking thoughtfully from me to Anakin, Obi-Wan said quietly, "I'm not so sure I can. You two – Anakin, Nasriel – if you're certain you're doing the right thing, then... do it, and I'll tell the Chancellor it was on my orders."

 _Later_ : Two-week posting, hah. We were here a week before I had the first... dream? Wrong word. The first time I knew I had to go and find Qui-Gon, and find him soon. And we've been here two more weeks since that. Ten days wasted on droid-wrecking and petty command squabbles – I'm running out of time, I know that much. And the wet weather's taking its toll on me. When we got here and I saw the terrain and climate, I told Xan I couldn't stick it more than a few days. It's been fifteen so far, and my whole body's on the verge of deciding to quit, one piece at a time. I'm eating more than usual and still always hungry. Persistent low-grade headache that ramps ups when I move – and I'm still dealing with troops of clankers every day, still practicing flying, so... persistent ramped-up headache. Always freezing cold, even when I'm sitting so close to the space heater I can smell my hair singeing.

Can't sleep. I guess the dreams don't help with that – not a night has gone by without my waking up suddenly, _absolutely certain_ something terrible is happening to Qui-Gon _right now_. We haven't been able to get a signal back to the Core in a week, and I can't help fidgeting that if anything _has_ happened, the folks at home will have heard about it and sorted it out before I know anything.

Self, self, self, Threeb. Stop it.

Xan hates Sempidal too, and he's doing his best to get clear as fast as he can. He's still not a good Master, and he'd be the first to agree – a _good_ Master, in this situation, with a Padawan who is biologically unable to cope with the climate, would either ask to be reassigned, or send the Padawan home – but at least he's trying to get us out of here. Although I've tried talking to him – get to know each other – we're supposed to be Master-and-Padawan for Force knows how long – the only thing we really have in common is Qui-Gon, and Xan's already made it clear that's not a topic for discussion.

I woke up in the dark this morning, to find Xan shaking me. He let go pretty fast the instant he worked out that the little ridges on my arm are raised scars, but stayed crouched by my bed, watching me anxiously.

"Are you okay, Sriel?"

"Yeah, why?" Feeling my hands still trembling from the fear I had found in the night and the shock of waking, I clenched them into fists.

"You were yelling and waking the whole tent." And it's a _long_ canvas tent, a dormitory with a leaky roof. "One of the sergeants came to get me."

"I saw something, Xan." Horrible though it had been, in a way it was a relief, after two weeks of featureless dread haunting my sleep, and of drifting off every night holding the warm stone pendant, reaching out into the Force searching for Qui-Gon, and begging for anything else he could tell me.

"Well, that's great." Xanatos laughed, a soft gasp of relief. "What was it?"

"Blood and white marble." The single still image I'd been given burned in my mind, so that it was a few moments before I could see clearly enough to tell Xan any more. He waited, one eyebrow cocked upward in an odd, hungry expression. And I realized: he's as anxious to find Qui-Gon as I am. Maybe more – he's known him longer, and besides, I can accept that Xan might not be enthused about the idea of being stuck with me long-term. With that in mind, I told him all I had managed to take in from the fleeting glimpse I had – at any rate, it felt fleeting.

The white marble was a section of wall, maybe a meter wide, between two high arched windows. There was what looked like a lamp, on a bronzium bracket, in the middle of the wall, about two meters up. It was white glass, shaped like an upturned flower – a riyo flower, by the look of it. The glass was broken, and there were sharp edges everywhere. There was blood pooled inside it, and running out through the cracks to trickle down the wall and spread out through the gaps between the floor-tiles.

"What color?" asked Xan calmly.

"Red. Human-arterial red."

"I meant the floor."

"The tiles are about the size of my palm, and they're square, but there's some sort of pattern by the wall," I said. "I think... I think it's green?"

"No," corrected Xan, "You don't think it's green; you just know it contrasts with red. Can you see anything out the windows?"

"No."

"Is anyone there?"

"No... wait. It's reflected in the window... I can't see properly... Oh, Force, Xan. He's – I think – he's dead. Xan..."

Grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking my head down to where he could reach it, Xan knocked on my forehead with his knuckles, hard, like banging on a door. " _Here_ , you think he's dead –" and switched suddenly to knock on my breastbone, right on the pendant. "Or _here_?"

"He's not dead," I said firmly. "You're right. I'd _know_."

Instead of going back to sleep, I found a flashlight and started noting down everything I could remember from the image. When we get away, when I can get a signal home, I'll see if Tahl can help me work out where I'm going. I just hope I won't be too late.

* * *

Head still ringing from being slammed against a wall, Qui-Gon prods gingerly at the deep cut glass-razored along the side of his skull. He swallows, an experiment he immediately regrets, as it only heightens the dull ache in his throat: being Force-choked is... frightening. He has been nearly garroted before now, on-mission, and while that was in no way _fun_ , it was easier than gasping for breath, slipping in and out of consciousness, and having nothing at which to strike out.

Dooku is not easily provoked, but once the fuse of his fiery temper has been lit, nothing can prevent the explosion. And the man holds grudges for decades. Qui-Gon had hoped, when he came here, that his past self had been exaggerating, had perhaps overstated how fierce the storms could be. Standing, slowly, because the bloody tiles are slick and treacherous, he mutters an apology to the shade of Dooku's first Padawan – _yes, I know you told me so_. Anyway, he has done what he came here to do. Now he just has to wait for Nasriel to keep her promise – certainly there is no way he can just up and vanish from the middle of Separatist holdings, not alone and without transport.

A doubt creeps into his mind – will Nasriel even know where to come? But... he has been here before, with Feemor. Surely as soon as the girl describes the image Qui-Gon has forced across the tattered remains of their bond, Feemor will know the system, the world, even the city. Surely it won't be long now.


	29. Chapter 29

Whenever we're away, Kijé keeps an eye on the plants, because Qui-Gon doesn't – didn't – _doesn't_ – trust Obi-Wan with them. Today Kijé called, and left a message with Admiral Yularen at Kaliida Shoals, who bounced it around the fleet until it found me. And with the message, he sent me a holo of something he thought I should see. I took it straight to the command tent where Xanatos was talking to the clone officers.

"Xan! It's not a riyo, it's a kaba lily!"

"That's great," Xan forced out. "Just wait, kid, okay?"

" _Xan_! Apart from the one in the quarters at home, kaba are endemic to Aduba-3."

Waving the officers away, Xan grabbed my arm and pulled me back outside. But the instant I felt the rain on my face, I froze. It had been raining at Laerdocia. It had rained the few times they let me outdoors at Karazak and... everywhere else. And with Xan's hand on my arm, and my own hunger and exhaustion churning in my head and chest and guts, I lost my grip on what was real. Some logical part of me knew I was safe and free and lightyears away from the slavers, but my body wasn't listening: I was tense and hyperventilating, my heart pounding as if I was terrified.

Xan swore and let go, but it was too late; I was in full-on panic mode, shaking, almost crying. I guess I've been lucky, in a way, that the chizzk that happened to me was so huge, so incomprehensible, my mind sort of shrugged and went _how am I supposed to know what should trigger a panic attack_? Anyway, I don't seem to have predictable triggers, which is only scary sometimes. After I'd been home a couple days, Qui-Gon started keeping a list of things that _sometimes_ set me off: do not touch Nasriel without warning her, do not close doors on Nasriel, do not leave Nasriel alone in the dark, do _not_ physically restrain Nasriel...

He... cared about me. And I really miss him.

"Hey. Sriel." Xan snapped his fingers in front of my face. "Can you hear me? Nod if you can hear me." Even though I didn't feel much in control just then, I managed to nod, and Xanatos flashed me a little half-grin. "That's good. That's terrific. I'm sorry I grabbed you. It's okay. You're at Sempidal, you're... Force, what's the Order _doing_ to its kids, you're on a frontline station... okay. You were trying to tell me something about a kaba, so let's get under a roof and you can finish telling me, all right?"

When I was back in the tent, sitting down with a hot drink, I calmed down enough to talk.

"The kaba lily flowered. That's never happened in my lifetime, so Kijé sent me a holo. And the lamp Qui-Gon showed me – in the dream – it wasn't a riyo, it was a kaba flower."

"And they're endemic to Aduba-3," Xan laughed. He sounded so relieved. "It's a world. Can you find him on a world?"

"I hope so," I said.

* * *

Dooku seems to be fond of Aduba-3 – presumably for its location, beyond Hutt Space and thus invisible to the Republic, but situated on a clear hyperspace lane so he can go where he pleases. Over the last few days, the Separatist leader has been making calls, dispatching a ship here, a strike team there, and preparing, so he tells Qui-Gon, for his master Sidious to visit the Aduba base. Until today, Qui-Gon has kept quiet – waiting, listening, finding out what he can, and staying out of Dooku's way.

This morning, as the sun rises palely over the field of golden lilies surrounding the house Dooku has commandeered as a base, Qui-Gon is summoned back to the gallery. Dooku is not yet there, and he is kept waiting, pacing the blue-green tiles of the gallery and trying to think, although his gaze keeps being drawn back to the broken lamp on the wall. A subtle reminder of the consequences of disappointing Octavius Dooku.

And then the man himself appears, cloaked in the blackness of the void, and bearing with him an icy shiver in the Force that perfectly suits the new name he has chosen for himself: Tyranus.

"There's something you can do," he tells Qui-Gon. "To prove your loyalty – which _I_ don't doubt, of course." A holomap fills the room with floating points of light, and Qui-Gon recognizes a world Dooku has highlighted: Allanteen, home to the Republic's shipyards.

"What's to do at Allanteen?" he asks drily. "And what's that you have highlighted out in the southern Expansion?"

"That is the location of your reason for doing as you're told." Without further explanation, Tyranus, Dooku-that-was, tosses Qui-Gon a data chip. "You're going to the shipyards to load that onto the sync system they use to update shipboard data. Then you'll come back. That's all."

"And if I don't?" Walking around the holomap, he indicates the other highlighted world. "What's here?"

"Oh... someone you want to stay alive," Tyranus taunts. "Go, now. The sooner you return, the sooner she's safe."

 _She. She who?_ Oh, Force, this is devilish. Qui-Gon bites back an angry retort, and makes for the landing bay, to try and find a vessel with a neutral transponder to get him into the Allanteen system.

* * *

Admiral Yularen's come to take over, at last, so Xan and I can go. About time – three days since Kijé called and gave us the location, and only now we're on our way.

I've never been this sun-deprived before. I mean, I knew about the headaches and the tiredness, but even that awful time Qui-Gon and I were at Hoth for two weeks straight, I didn't get this – old scars reopening and bleeding again, and new ones refusing to heal. Yularen took one look at me and rounded on Xanatos: "Get her out of here and back to your Temple healers _now_."

Xan shrugged. "She's my Padawan, Admiral, hadn't you heard? I'm responsible for her, and I don't appreciate your interference."

"You're being _irresponsible,_ Master DuCrion! Until this war is over, the G.A.R. has a vested interest in Jedi survival. Your apprentice is wounded and by the look of her she's sick as well. Take her home or I swear I will detail a squad to do it for you." So Xan and I sloshed away through the mud and rain, dodging the Admiral's men and the relieving clones, to fetch our things from the dorm tent and get away.

Aboard _Morningstar_ , stowing our gear, Xan looked at me properly for the first time in a week, and went so pale I could see it even under the grime grained into his skin.

"Oh, Force, kid. Yularen must have thought I was trying to kill you. I – shall we just go home, get Vokara to patch you up, and I'll go after Qui-Gon alone?"

" _Aduba_ ," I said firmly. It's going to be hard enough to find my Master as things stand – I can feel our bond fading by the hour, and darkening as it fades. Without even that fine thread of guidance, Xan would be going in blind. He'd take far longer to find Qui-Gon, _if_ he found him at all, and we don't have 'longer'.

I have not endured Sempidal just to go home and reach Aduba too late. Because despite what I said on that trial night when I met Komari and saw what happens when love turns to obsession… right now, I do need Qui-Gon. And right now, he needs _me_.

 _Later:_ Obi-Wan wasn't happy when we told him where we were going. Apparently Aduba is occupied – the Republic left it because it's non-strategic and barely inhabited, but the Seps seem to like it. Bi-An couldn't tell us any more than that, because Tahl was keeping tabs on Aduba, and she's been assigned to a mission with Bruck out in the southern Expansion. About the only good news today is that I know Qui-Gon _is_ at Aduba.

We're in a far orbit around the planet, trying to work out what to do. _Morningstar_ 's so small we could probably slip in and out unnoticed, and we've got a neutral transponder code to use… this might even work.

* * *

Three days later – two for travel, one for loading the accursed data chip into the Republic fleet's backup server – Qui-Gon is back in Dooku's office in the gallery. The 'mission' turned out ridiculously simple, because the Allanteen base hadn't heard from the Temple in weeks, and didn't know he is officially _persona non grata_ , a fugitive. They will have found out by now: Anakin and Ahsoka are due at the shipyards tonight.

When Dooku finally arrives, through the doors in the shadowy far end of the gallery, the doors that lead Force-know-where, Qui-Gon waits a few moments before speaking. He tries to study the lilies outside, tries to draw tranquility from _their_ part in the Living Force, since he dare not touch it himself, but the night without and the blaze of light within preclude his seeing anything more than his own dark reflection.

These weeks at Aduba have been hard – fighting to hold the overwhelming darkness at bay without the aid of the Light. He cannot do this alone anymore, and the shadows are beginning to take hold.

"What have I done?" Qui-Gon asks the reflection in the window, the hushed question shattering the silence.

"Saved a life," Dooku says shortly, clicking on a holoprojector. There is a town nestled in a clearing of a burning-colored jungle; a maze of narrow dirty streets winding among teetering wooden tenements. Tahl stalks along an alleyway, head flicking occasionally from side to side as she senses, maybe listens, for whatever she is there to find. After a moment or so, Qui-Gon notices that the holo view is taken through the scope of a sniper rifle.

Another few moments, then Tahl passes out of sight, and the Sith lord deactivates the projector. "There. Loading the data into the sync system saved her life. This," he snarls, snatching up an audio recorder from his desk and thrusting it at Qui-Gon, "has certainly not increased the security of yours."

Suddenly wary, Qui-Gon touches the playback button. At first there is only a semi-audible mutter. Then his own voice, more strained than he remembered sounding. "Have General Skywalker look at the system access logs when he gets here. Tell him I loaded the sync system patch my... former Master suggested." So there was a recording device built into the data chip. _Blast_.

It's so beautiful... I didn't think Aduba would be beautiful. It took us far too long – two full orbits – to work out which of the handful of cities on the planet is our destination. We're on-world, and Xan's using me as a sort of compass, doing all the proper navigation while I tell him what general direction to go. Just now we're resting, hiding in a coal-cellar – for a few minutes – because I was too tired to keep walking. Dear Force, I'm so useless today, just exactly when I need to be at my best.

I can't tell Xan this, I can't, but the bond is so weak now... it's all I can do to pick out Qui-Gon's presence, let alone say or do anything useful at the same time. I found the right building, and then the bond... cut. Gone. Not dead (please Force not dead) just gone. And it's such a huge building, and we'll be searching manually.

"The data is loaded," Dooku says softly. "Even if he gets the message, even if he has the sense to _find_ the data you put on their system, Anakin can't touch it now. But you. You made... let's call it a mistake. I don't need to tell Darth Sidious." _Of course you don't, if you do he'll know you've let a spy waltz right into the middle of your base_ , the cynical side of Qui-Gon's mind retorts. Dooku is still talking. "Do anything like that again and I will kill you. This time you get off with a warning." This is better than being killed outright. This is better than if he decided to kill Tahl in retribution. Or Anakin. Or Obi-Wan. Or Nasriel. But while it's better, it's still not _good_. Qui‑Gon nods slowly, and takes a few paces back, even though he knows that won't make any difference.

At some point in the storm that follows, over the inferno roaring through and around him – an even mix of bodily agony and the torment of the Dark Side – he hears the door fly open behind him, brass handles crashing into the stone of the wall.

A voice speaks in the darkness. Although he is fairly sure the lights are still on, the blinding effects of being pummeled by lightning will linger for a minute or so; Qui-Gon does not bother to look toward the doorway.

"Hey, Qui-Gon," the voice says. Man's voice. Familiar, but he can't quite place it. "You coming?"


	30. Chapter 30

Qui-Gon looks up then, shaking his head to clear the mist from his vision, and sees Xanatos standing in the doorway, lightsaber ignited, blue eyes ice-hard as he stares down Dooku.

Dooku is amused. "Do you ever give up?"

There is blood on the floor again, and Qui-Gon realizes that it is leaching from his ears and nose. Oddly enough, it does not seem to hurt.

"No, we don't," a different voice answers Dooku, light and clear, and then Nasriel's cold fingers close on Qui-Gon's arm. "Are you okay, Master?" Four days ago, when he had no chance of meeting Dooku's elusive Master, and every chance of meeting a sudden and violent death, he would have been glad to see Nasriel. Tonight, when he has so nearly finished what he came here to do, her presence and Xan's are intolerable.

"No," he says impatiently, and she is so surprised she pulls her hand away. "Go home."

And then the room is full of blazing power again, and Nasriel screams as the lightning takes her and forces her to her knees. Reaching for the Force for the first time in weeks, annoyed that Dooku feels the right to damage _his_ Padawan, Qui-Gon finds only the liquid darkness he has so strenuously resisted. Can it really be so bad if he uses it for just a moment...?

Nasriel flies across the gallery, connecting with the wall, then the floor, the impact making a sickening _crack_ that Qui-Gon does not really have time to hear, because the Dark is enjoying this new development, and howls with delight when he tries to shake it off and finds he cannot.

Xan glares at him and edges slowly over to Nasriel, not lowering his guard or taking his eyes off his former Master and Dooku, as he crouches to check the unconscious Padawan's pulse. "What the kriff was that for?" he snarls.

"Is she dead?" Dooku enquires.

"You wish," Xan replies acidly. "So. Qui-Gon. I'm here to ask you if you're coming home, because that's what Sriel wants. Whether she'll still want it when she – _if_ she comes to, I don't know. But I said I'd come, and ask, so I'm here. What do you want to do?"

"Xanatos, get Nasriel out of here. Go home."

"On the contrary, Xanatos," Dooku says. He has yet to move from his place by his desk. "You may leave Nasriel with her Master and return to the Temple."

Xanatos hesitates then, corralling a loose strand of his long dark hair, smoothing it back – a nervous habit he never quite lost. "What's Tahl going to say?" he asks at last.

"She'll understand," Qui-Gon lies.

"She'll kill me." Xan's analysis is more accurate. "Listen, Qui-Gon, I don't know what you're playing at, but do you seriously believe I won't follow your _excellent_ example and track my Master to the farthest corner of the Galaxy in a crazy gambit to convince him to come home? Look at yourself. You're Dooku. You're exactly what you've spent... longer than I've known you... maybe your whole life... trying not to be. I don't deserve that, Master. Neither does Bi‑An, or – or Feemor – and sure as kriff Tahl doesn't deserve it."

Dooku paces forward, so that he stands between Qui-Gon and Xanatos, but doesn't look at either of them, instead keeping his gaze down. "You don't mention the girl."

"She's not dead, but she's dying," Xan says bluntly. "One more day and I don't think she'll care what he does. I wanted Nasriel to go home, get to the healers. She said she's not going back until she's seen Qui-Gon again – and she's willing to die for that. Stubborn little _schutta_... she gets it from you, Master."

Something moves in the shadows beyond Dooku, something that scrapes on the tiles and glints dully where the light hits it. Raising his lightsaber, Xan scowls into the darkness.

"Destroyers."

Indeed, in the green glow of the upheld 'saber, three droidekas grind into readiness.

"I see them," Qui-Gon assures Xanatos. The darkness becomes thick and choking, prodding him into action, an obscene parody of the Force's familiar gentle guidance. Suddenly droidekas are the least of his problems.

As it seeped into him over these days at Aduba, unresisted by the Light, the darkness, a half-dead nightmare fueled by pain and hatred, became him. And what the ravening darkness hates most is light, in the form of the two Jedi in the gallery. In the years that follow, Qui-Gon will never be sure whether it is himself or the person of the Dark Side that lashes out at Xanatos. Certainly, something in the Dark is aware that the younger man is its prey; prey that somehow slipped its clutches all those years ago on Telos – but Qui-Gon only knows that while his web of blue lightning meshes around Xanatos, the light dims a little, and the pain abates.

"Oh, kriff _off_ , Qui-Gon!" Xan shouts, not for the first time in their acquaintance, and raises his lightsaber to ward away the worst of the lightning. The attack drives him back against the wall, and Qui-Gon follows, feeling the shadows lengthen around him, feeling the light begin to ebb away again.

Taking another step back, Xanatos trips over Nasriel's legs, causing her to stir momentarily, and him to sprawl suddenly on the floor. In the last instant between falling and imminent death, while lightning still flames around him, Xan has one more thing to say.

"Maybe you don't care that you're turning into Dooku. But can't you see he's using you?"

The dark wants to finish the Jedi immediately, but Qui-Gon looks back at Dooku, and sees he is standing motionless. Waiting. Does he really want Xan and Nasriel dead, or does he just want Qui-Gon to kill them? Xanatos takes advantage of the momentary distraction he has created, to grab Nasriel, hefting her over his shoulder in a clone-carry and making for the door.

"We're going now," he says. "Come along if you like."

And the droidekas open fire, and Dooku is laughing at something and unhooking the curved hilt of his lightsaber, and the door slams open again and Qui-Gon runs – or perhaps it doesn't happen in that order at all.

He follows Xanatos through the silent streets of an occupied town at night. On the outskirts, the familiar boxy shape of _Morningstar_ looms out of the darkness, outer airlock door still open, even though the engines are humming and the ship is almost ready to leave.

Scrambling through the hatch, he fetches up against the thick transparisteel of the inner airlock door, and waits for Xanatos or Nasriel to let him in. Due to _Morningstar_ 's varied uses and cramped quarters, the airlock has been designed to serve as a makeshift brig in extreme circumstances – as such, there are no controls of any kind inside the lock, and the chamber is large enough to sit in fairly comfortably.

For the same reason, Qui-Gon suddenly remembers as the outer door clicks shut behind him, this area is interlined with thanatosine – 'death-stone' – an odd substance with the property of entirely blocking anything it surrounds from the influence of the Force. There is the usual sickening jolt as reality shifts, as the connection to Force and self and Galaxy at large is severed, but this time, in the moment of disorientation, of isolation, there is also a crushing relief: the Dark is gone, its grip on him broken. Whether it will try to claim him back later… is a question for later. The door is closed on Aduba. There is no going back now.

Qui-Gon waits, in the echoing silence of the Force's absence, through the dual disruptions of takeoff and the jump to lightspeed. A few minutes – or hours – later, Xan appears abruptly from the cockpit, and activates the airlock comlink.

"You all right?" he asks, voice and eyes hard. He is angry, and Qui-Gon supposes he has a right to be angry.

"I think so, yes. You two?"

"Concerned but not overly surprised that you tried to kill us. Couple blaster burns. Having a little difficulty seeing straight – Sith lightning's a vetch that way, isn't it, _Master_? I don't suppose you'd know… not usually being on the receiving end!" Xan sighs, his fury either spent or filed orthodoxly away, to be calmly considered and released later. "Sriel's a mess, but nothing the healers can't fix." He glances aft toward the bunk, a flicker of undisguised worry crossing his face. "I hope."

"What happened?"

Nasriel's voice murmurs something in the background, and Xan turns to answer. "He's here, kiddo. Wait a moment, okay?"

"Is Nasriel all right?" demands Qui-Gon.

"You threw her at a wall." Xanatos is icily polite, and overall Qui-Gon thinks he prefers Xan's anger to his cool restraint. "Do you _think_ she's all right?"

"I'm fine!" Nasriel calls, and the rest of what she says is lost by the comlink.

" _Not now_!" Xan softens, then, and sounds almost kind as he continues. "Five minutes by the wall chrono, and then you can come. This isn't a forever, kid – we'll have plenty of excuses to be at Mi's later."

"Where are we going?" Qui-Gon asks. It is uncomfortable talking to Xan like this – the younger Jedi has always been inscrutable to some degree, but usually there are the little eddies of emotion, the edges of thoughts, to lessen his inherent unpredictability.

"Malastare." And yes, that was unexpected. "I'm dropping you at the Black City, and I'll call Mi at Sunrise House to let her know you're there. Then I'm going home with Nasriel, and hoping I'll only have to explain damage, not death."

"Where have you been – before you came to Aduba?"

"Four weeks at Sempidal." A pause to let Qui-Gon remember where Sempidal is and what its climate is like. "On patrol. Usually fighting tinnies or hiking from dawn to dusk, sometimes fending off attacks at night as well." The pause again. Qui-Gon is thinking of the time he and Nasriel were stationed at Hoth – that lasted exactly two weeks before he called the Temple for a transfer. And there is more sunshine even at Hoth than at Sempidal. "We couldn't really have left before we did, anyway," Xan explains. "Didn't know where to start looking for you."

Something is wrong. "I gave Nasriel enough in the image that she only had to describe it roughly and Feemor would know exactly what _building_ to send you to."

"Feemor's _dead,_ " snaps Xan. "Yoda had to reshuffle the mission roster when you left, and he went off on _your_ mission. Blown up. Your Sep friends mined the hyperspace lane to Moddel. You should have died, not _Feemor_."

"When?" Does Xan really wish he were dead? Wrong question. Feemor is dead. He had assumed there would be time – sometime – to seek out his first Padawan, to apologize, reconcile. Feemor died thinking him a traitor… and suddenly Qui-Gon's focus shifts. He has spent so long working out how to turn the whole 'Sith mess' into an advantage that he forgot how it would look to the others. Xan rightly feels betrayed. Yoda? Mace? Obi-Wan? Force, _Tahl_.

"Day after you disappeared," Xan's voice breaks in on this stunned silence. "It's been… a pretty rough few weeks, Qui-Gon."

"Been five minutes!" Nasriel announces triumphantly from around the corner, and appears suddenly beside Xan, smiling slightly, shy but hopeful.

"What kept you?" Qui-Gon asks lightly.

"Um… I couldn't…" Nasriel's face falls, and she stumbles through the answer to a question he hadn't meant to ask. "We were at Sempidal and… I can't see like the guys can, it took me ages to even pick up the image you gave me. I'm sorry, Master, I let you down, but… it was so hard!"

"Did you do your best?"

"Ye-yeah."

"Well, then." Qui-Gon smiles, aware of the wry twist of what he is saying and how he is saying it. "You did your best, so you didn't let me down. If your best isn't good enough there's only so much you can do about it. Good job, Nasriel."

When the Padawan drops abruptly to her knees, pressing closer against the transparisteel, he notices the blood, soaked through her tunic, making it stick and hang oddly over her arms and shoulders. And she's gotten so _thin_...

"Can I come in?" asks Nasriel.

Qui-Gon looks to Xan, who shrugs. "Sure." A minute later, Nasriel is curled up next to her Master, tucked snugly between his body and the wall, with her head in his lap and his arm over her. She sighs contentedly, and falls asleep again almost at once.

Xan is still standing in the passageway, leaning against the airlock door, scowling.

Qui-Gon turns back to him with a logical argument. "Nasriel doesn't have time to go all the way to Malastare and back, Xanatos. She'd be dead before you made it into the Core. Trust me on this. We... understand each other."

"If I land at the Temple with you on board you'll be arrested in no time flat. You know that, right?"

For a minute, Qui-Gon considers this, gazing down at his sleeping Padawan. "It's more than worth it," he says at last.


	31. Chapter 31

The voyage back to the Temple is long and silent – Xanatos remains in the cockpit, and Nasriel remains deeply asleep or unconscious. Qui-Gon is left alone with his thoughts, and they are not the most pleasant of company. He hopes that Anakin managed to fix whatever Dooku's data chip did to the Republic sync systems, and that the damage wasn't too serious. For two hours by the wall chrono, whose edge he can just see, Qui-Gon counts up what currency he still has with the Council – most of it is in the form of snatches and drabs of information, data of dubious usefulness but definite Republic inaccessibility. Perhaps it will be enough.

When _Morningstar_ reaches Coruscant, the sun is just rising, striking the tiny outer window of the airlock golden and opaque. Xanatos appears suddenly in the passageway, leaning with one arm on the transparisteel of the door. He holds a comlink in his free hand, letting it hang idle, and opens the airlock link.

"Vokara's coming for Nasriel." There is a pause, as if he expects an answer, but Qui-Gon does not have one, and Nasriel could not have one, so, "Mace is coming for you," Xan adds.

Vokara does not come. Vokara sends Bant, the gentle Mon Cal healer who, for a few years before she discovered her rightful calling, had been Tahl's Padawan, and so is counted one of the family. When she arrives on the landing platform, Bant assiduously avoids looking at Qui-Gon, focusing instead on Nasriel, and on keeping her gaze down – this is rather more obvious in Bant than it would have been in a near-Human, because her eyes are so large and silvery.

Not that Qui-Gon minds in the least – the flood of light, and Light, that pours in as the hatch opens is almost enough to make up for anything. He has been so empty, for so long, that he cannot properly hang onto the Light, and it eddies around as if unsure of him – but it is there, and that is enough for now.

Mace waits on the platform, face and stance expressionless, aura blank. "You were warned." Qui-Gon recognizes the veracity of this, and is about to say so, but Mace cuts him off. "Yet here you are back in the Core."

"From a certain point of view." He does not feel like the same Qui-Gon Jinn who left – is he back, or has someone else returned? The Korun Master has yet to reply. "Well?"

"Well." Mace is not amused. Is he ever? "Come with me. Lightsaber?"

Qui-Gon shakes his head; he left his lightsaber in a safe-deposit box at Corellia, but the Force seems to be suggesting that Mace thinks Dooku has it, and he is more than happy for this misapprehension to continue. Lightsabers aside, _They_ have elected to spare him the indignity of being stun-cuffed, and for that he is grateful enough to come quietly. Xanatos is still watching.

And then there is a thanatosine containment cell, just as the Council threatened a month ago. Qui-Gon has never been this far down before, deep in the sublevels of the Temple where the dull brown walls seem to mop up and mute the light, and by the time Mace halts a few meters from the dead-end of a corridor, he is comprehensively lost.

"Yours," the Councilor says, tapping on the pane of transparisteel that forms one wall of the corridor here. A door beside the pane lets into the cell behind it, and it is this door that Mace opens, and then locks behind Qui-Gon, before striding away up the passage.

This time, the sudden absence of the Force _feels_ like a loss – when he has so recently found it again, found the clean pure Light that has soaked over the millennia into the very foundations of the Temple – to lose it again seems unbearably cruel.

Exploring the cell occupies him for all of ten seconds – bed against one wall, table and chair against the other, 'fresher and washbasin behind a partition. The room is two paces square, with no chrono or any other way of marking time. While there is an electric light, it won't help him, because the switch is inside the cell. Time, it seems, does not matter down here.

Kijé appears suddenly, a while later, and bows, as respectfully as if his friend's Master were not on the wrong side of a cell window.

"Good afternoon, Master Jinn." He opens a hatch halfway up the door, which Qui-Gon had not previously noticed. "I hope you'll excuse the presumption, but I thought you might appreciate something to pass the time." _Something_ is a stack of blank flimsi, an ink-pencil, and what proves, when Qui-Gon crosses the cell to pick it up, to be the holobook edition of Baral Favain's _Notable Flora of the Outer Rim_. 'A garden in a book," Qui-Gon has often told his youngest Padawan, and his own flimsi-copy is heavily annotated with comments and sketches.

"You've seen Nasriel," he surmises. "She's awake."

"Yes. She asked me to tell you that she... will be fine."

"What did she _say_?"

Kijé looks away, twisting his fingers nervously. "Padawan Threeb's exact words were, _please_ _tell him he didn't hurt me very badly._ "

Qui-Gon feels sick. "Did I?" It is not beyond Nasriel to understate her injuries, if she thinks that that will be less painful to him than the truth. Kijé, though, has no such qualms.

"I don't know, Master Jinn. What I've gathered from Master DuCrion and from Nasriel herself suggests that you Force-threw her at a stone wall. She's certainly injured, but I'm not a healer; I don't know if the damage sustained is more concurrent with wall-throwing or with incidents at Sempidal. And I haven't been able to speak with Master Eerin yet."

"Are you still gathering data, Kijé, or have you made all your conclusions?"

"I've made most of them," says the junior Archivist. "That's why I'm here." Kijé rarely smiles, but he does so now, a shy, half-formed grin that says he has finally come to his point. "I'm Archives, Master Jinn – I can go anywhere I want. Getting Nasriel down here, even when she's feeling better, will be more difficult. Is there anything you'd like me to tell her in the meantime?"

This particular _anything_ would fill a holobook, and Qui-Gon suspects even Kijé's legendary capacity for memorization might falter. "Just tell her _yo varel nu, chenilara_."

Comprehendingly – it would seem the boy _does_ speak Saalisan – Kijé repeats the message back to be sure of the pronunciation, bows again, and leaves.

Picking up the ink-pencil, Qui-Gon starts to write, and stops only when he runs out of flimsi: everything he remembers from the ice-planet, from Aduba, and all the worlds in between. Dooku, Grievous, Sidious; the Separatist forces and plans. He is contemplating writing on the wall, when Yoda comes.

"Eating not, are you?" the Grand Master observes, and Qui-Gon notices for the first time a tray of food balanced precariously on the open door-hatch. Now who brought that?"

"...No." And how long has he been here?

"This tell me, Qui-Gon. Why return did you, hmm? Know this would happen, you did."

"Nasriel would have died."

"All dying, are we. Attached you are to Padawan Threeb, I sense."

"With respect, Master, even you cannot _sense_ through thanatosine."

"Attached you are to her, anyone with eyes can see. Unnecessary risks for her you take."

"That depends on how you define necessary. What did you really come for, Master Yoda?"

"To talk, came I."

"And we are talking. How is Tahl?"

Leaning on his stick, Yoda scowls. "Well, is Tahl. A Separatist sniper hunting her did she discover and capture. Home she is from the Mid Rim. Master Che in the medcenter pestering is she, as would you if you could, hmm?"

"That's good." He tells Yoda why Dooku had sent the sniper after Tahl, and he tells about the data Dooku had him load into the sync systems. Yoda listens, still and silent, eyes closed, until Qui-Gon asks him what the data chip actually did.

"To repair the damage, a day it took Anakin. Longer would it have taken if what to look for you had not told him, hmm. Jammed comms on all cruisers that synced from it, the data bug did. Most unhappy, Anakin was, contact with all his squadrons to lose during a battle."

"You're serious, Master?" Thank the Force it only lasted a day. Curse his own naïveté for loading the damnable data at all. If Anakin had not been there, the consequences would not bear thinking about.

"When not serious am I?" Yoda snaps.

"The time in Anakin's apprenticeship when Obi-Wan made him rake the sand in the meditation garden, and you came and played in it," Qui-Gon answers promptly.

"Talk more tomorrow, we shall," Yoda decides, not deigning to answer, and shuffles away as quickly as he came. Turning back to the wall, Qui-Gon selects an area of smooth stone, a little above eye level, and resumes his writing.

* * *

Saying today was not terrific would be kind of an understatement. I'm sick, but I knew that. Bant says pretty much everything is down to Sempidal, and I didn't get much hurt at Aduba. And I'd already _told_ her that, I told her – and Master Che and Bi-An who showed up unexpectedly – that Qui-Gon was just getting me away from Dooku, that if he'd _wanted_ to hurt me he would have kriffing _hurt me_. 

Then Kijé came back from the sublevels to bring me a message from Qui-Gon. It was perfect – this tiny moment in the middle of everything being wrong – to remind me that I still have the Force, and I still have my Master, and things are already getting better; we're home, for a start.

As I try to replay everything that happened, without involving myself in it, I find out… what I learned. I learned that a Jedi cannot afford to rely on any person, not even himself, because people are fallible. That the Force must be everything to us.

And now I know that that is the lesson, I am sitting in the medcenter meditating on what has passed. And I can release it. This isn't like other times I've had to release something that happened – this _changed_ me, and I know it. I'm not the same Nasriel who got kidnapped. I'm stronger.

I got up and opened the blinds, and I'm sitting here in the light, weeping my eyes out. It's not the first time of crying over all that, and I guess it won't be the last, but _I am not broken anymore_. Although I'm not okay, I am choosing to quit drifting around in fragments, and start putting myself back together. I don't have to be defined by what happened to me. I can release it.

I was kidnapped. I accept that this happened. I was raped and tortured. I accept that this happened. My baby died. I thought Qui-Gon had abandoned me. The Shaman tried to turn me to the Dark Side. I thought my Master was a Sith. I thought I was a Sith. I confronted the slavers at trial and it didn't end the way I hoped. It happened, it happened, it happened.

And it still hurts, and I will still cry, but as I release the past... I feel the past release me as well. I'm free.


	32. Chapter 32

The next few weeks pass slowly and uncertainly, and after a while, Qui-Gon gives up trying to work out what time it might be at any given moment. Every so often, Kijé Yenseh materializes, always with the date, time, and weather outside (late in the winter, this is usually 'sunny, but stanging freezing outside'), and usually with some other thing – a book, more flimsi, a candle, a butane lighter.

Yoda visits about as often as Kijé – every other day, perhaps – it is not as if they have nothing to say. The pair of them talk about Dooku, about the war and the Separatists, about Komari Vosa and Jango Fett, about the fact that Yoda is teaching Nasriel and some other small-sized Padawans how to fly. They talk briefly about Tahl, and the next day (according to the calendar of Kijé) Tahl knocks on the window, jolting Qui-Gon out of a daydream over the guttering stub of the candle.

"Qui?" she asks softly, and, "Hello," says Qui-Gon, "You didn't have trouble finding the place?"

"Yoda told me where to come." They talk for a while, desultorily, little sips of conversation with long, thoughtful pauses between, and all about the distant past. They have plenty of that, and it is warmer and lighter than the present.

At length Qui-Gon apologizes for the Separatist sniper, and Tahl laughs, says she enjoyed that – and he apologizes for leaving her thinking him lost to the Dark Side, and her face crumples as if she might cry.

"I'm not denying it was hard, Qui. But I kept telling myself you knew what you were doing, and… it's good to have you back, even if you are an idiot." Moving closer, Tahl presses her hands against the transparisteel, her body heat making two warm patches on the pane.

Qui-Gon lays his palms against hers, touching-not-touching through the window. "Thank you for trusting me, Tahl. You know what that means to me."

"You've been earning it for years," Tahl says. "Thank you for coming back." She frowns, twisting away, and goes on quickly. "No, Qui, I'm not doing this. I can't see you, I can't touch you, I can't even feel your presence. This is worse than a comlink. I might – I might come by later," she offers, paltry compensation for losing her matchless company, and the sight and sound of her, all of which he has so sorely missed.

"Whenever you can make it," Qui-Gon agrees reluctantly, clinging to the warmth of her hands on the window. "Just so long as you come back to me."

"Always," Tahl promises, turning back to the emptiness that he knows is all she can feel of him in the Force. "You'll find it harder than that to get rid of me." And then she is gone, back into the light that fills the upper levels.

The candle has burned out, sputtering into a puddle of fast-hardening wax on the table-top. Although he could not possibly have meditated, even with the candle as anchor, its steady light was oddly calming, allowing him to think in smooth, unbroken strands – which he must, for his writing continues apace. The pile of pages, covered on both sides with notes, maps, diagrams, is three finger-widths high, on the day Mace Windu returns.

Direct, sparing no words for greeting, "What are you writing?" Mace asks, and, without comment, Qui-Gon passes the top few pages through the door-hatch. The Korun Master reads silently, face drawn into a skeptical scowl. Finishing, he glances up to meet Qui-Gon's elaborately incurious gaze.

"Betraying your Master again?" Mace's tone oozes sarcasm.

"No." It would take too long to explain. He is not loyal to Dooku, and has never had any reason to be. One cannot _betray_ when one never truly belonged. He settles for, "Trying to end the war sooner. That was the only reason I went."

For the first time in a long time, he realizes a moment later, he has succeeded in surprising Mace Windu. The Councilor halts, puzzled, and Qui-Gon waits.

"Can I take these?" Mace asks, tapping the flimsis against the window.

He goes to fetch the rest from the table, and hands those over as well. "Please do."

"Is this all?"

"Until Kijé brings me more flimsi," Qui-Gon shrugs, regretting the words for Kijé's sake in the instant they are spoken, for:

"Yenseh," snorts Mace. "I should have guessed. I'll see you get a datapad."

This is distinctly heartening. "Would you take a note to Nasriel for me? Please?" he ventures, laying on the open hatch a folded flimsi sealed with the last of the candlewax. Of late Kijé has been banned from the medcenter, or he would not resort to this.

Picking up the note, the Councilor fingers it thoughtfully. "No," he decides.

"Give it back, then."

"No," Mace repeats, and walks away.

Qui-Gon considers swearing, but it wouldn't help, so he settles down to read about riyo trees for the eighth time. Thirteen chapters later, Kijé's regular visit brings more flimsi, a datapad with dictation software – _Master Windu's idea_ , he explains awkwardly – and a fresh candle.

"Thank you, Kijé. Do you suppose I could have another pen? This one's almost finished."

"Oh…" That secretive smile again. "Of _course_."

In the morning – well, he thinks it is morning; it was night when Kijé left, and he has been asleep since then – Qui-Gon wakes from an uneasy sleep to hear something tapping against the door. The hatch opens abruptly, and the tapping stops, but he gets up to turn on the light and investigate anyway.

An ink-pencil is describing slow circles around the hatch, and, when Qui-Gon plucks it out of the air, a hand follows it, batting aimlessly at nothing. There is no mistaking the tattoo decorating the back of it.

"Nasriel?"

The hand withdraws, pausing to wave hello, and then Nasriel is grinning at him through the window, her pointed teeth gleaming and the glow of delight around her practically visible. Nasriel is not wearing her outer tunic, just a sleeveless, scoop-necked inner tunic, with her leggings and bare feet and a cloak thrown on over the top. Although she shivers in the cool air of the basement level, she still looks radiantly happy.

"Hello, Master, how are you?"

"I'm fine. Did Mace give you the note after all?"

"No... Kijé did, when he told me to bring you a pen." _Force bless Kijé the pickpocket_. Nasriel's momentary confusion evaporates, and she chatters on brightly. "I'm living with Xan now, but he's downtown with 'Roni and Res from Ninth Lower again, and Tahl's in the Archives, so nobody'll miss me for at least an hour. If – if you don't mind me staying that long," she adds uncertainly.

"Stay as long as you want," Qui-Gon tells her. "And you're all right? Kijé didn't know."

Nasriel folds her arms tight over her chest, hands reaching up around opposite shoulders, and shrugs, which looks rather odd in that pose. "I'm okay. I'm at home a lot – because of the balcony – I lie around in the sun and read all day, it's great. That's why I've not got full tunics on, to soak up more sunshine. It's nearly spring now, the weather's lovely. The plants are okay too." She laughs suddenly, an infectious ripple of pure delight, but cuts off, pressing her hand flat against the window. "Knock on the glass, please?"

When Qui-Gon obliges, the Padawan nods, slowly, and slides down to sit cross-legged on the floor. "I wasn't sure if you were _there_ or somewhere else. This kind of sucks, actually. Are you... are you really all right, or just trying not to upset me?"

"On balance, Sriel, I prefer the void to the darkness."

Nasriel sighs. "Why does everything have to be so hard?"

"Ask the right question, Padawan." For many years now, that has been a familiar reminder, quiet encouragement to think logically and get to the heart of the matter. Nasriel has used it on him more than once too, but today she rebuffs the patient non-answer.

"I _am_! Everything _is_ hard. Dying is harder than it sounds. Living is harder than dying. Coming home is hard. Being suspected of Force-knows-what all the time – that's hard. Talking to you about anything serious is beyond hard; it's an exercise in warped reasoning. There must be some reason for it; I just want to know _why_ we always have to choose between... the darkness and the void."

"Not everything is hard. Falling is easy. Being wrong is easy. Failing... failing your family is easy. But the things that aren't hard are rarely worth doing. Your question has no answer."

Nasriel halts, studying the floor, and he thinks she is considering what he has said – it is difficult to be certain, with the Force blocked and a thick pane of transparisteel between them. "You said... you used to say everything had an answer. And that the trouble was finding it."

"The answer to this one is _I do not know_." He is about to say more, but Kijé comms Nasriel to tell her Xan is home, and she has to leave. "Think about it," Qui-Gon calls after her. "We'll talk again next time you come."

After that, she comes every day, full of gossip about life upstairs. A youngling started a fire in the garden; Xan came home hungover and Tahl slapped him; Ahsoka's learning Jar Kai but she's really bad at it; Bruck's gone to Allanteen; Bant says next time Ben pokes a carnivorous plant it will be his own sweet fault and she won't help him. Nothing about Obi-Wan. When Qui-Gon asks why, Nasriel shrugs uncomfortably.

"He's pretty mad at you, Master." Nervously, twisting the end of her braid, she adds in a whisper, "So was I."

"Why?" He knows – how could he not know? – but Nasriel has to say it. Words are healing.

"Because you went off with Dooku years and years ago and you didn't _tell_ me, even when we were hunting him. And – and you left me with Dooku and the Shaman. And then you went off again and you wouldn't take me and I didn't know where you were and I was _scared_." Qui-Gon waits to see if she is finished or just warming up, and Nasriel runs on. "I _was_ angry. But then I thought… I've been blaming you for everything that's happened: for leaving me with Dooku, and – and at Chu'unthor, and for going off and making us all think you were Lost... but you were just doing what you've always done – the right thing, as it came up. I guess I mean... I'm sorry I thought less of you just because the right thing wasn't the convenient thing for me. I'm sorry," she repeats, looking so dejected that Qui-Gon wishes he could hold her close and tell her it's all right. He has to settle for telling.

"Whatever you may have thought or felt, you didn't let it get in the way of doing your usual competent job. Good work, Padawan."

Nasriel smiles at that, and jumps up from the stone floor, to slip one hand through the door-hatch and clasp Qui-Gon's. Is it strange that his opinion still matters so much to her now that he is nothing – not a Sith, not a Jedi, not a civilian? Well, he still cares what she thinks.

" _Thank_ you," Nasriel says earnestly.

"For what?" he asks, genuinely curious.

"For doing the right thing even when it was really hard for you." Her thin fingers squeeze for an instant, then release. "I love you... I missed you. I'm so glad you're back."

"I used to know a little girl," Qui-Gon starts reflectively, and Nasriel grins because she knows he means her, "who could never have said to me what you just said quite so calmly, or without trying to jump on me. I think she's grown up now."

"Yeah..." Nasriel flattens her face against the transparisteel, features comically warped by the flat pane. "That's not going to work, is it?" She has to unstick herself a moment later, because her comlink rings with a text message. "Bi-An's looking for me, so I have to go. We've got a mission, Xan and me – Corellia."

"Could you pick up my lightsaber while you're there?"

Nasriel shrugs. "Sure. Where did you leave it?" So he tells her, and then she is gone again, and he is left alone, in the emptiness between Dark and Light. The silence seems to last a long time, this time, but it is difficult to tell for sure.

Eventually Mace returns, but instead of just knocking on the window for attention, he opens the door. Sitting at the table, reading, Qui-Gon scowls suspiciously at him.

"What is it?"

"The Council has finished considering your... extraordinary mission report. They have concluded that you're unorthodox – as if we didn't know – but on the whole more likely to help than to hinder, and very much less likely to turn to the Dark Side than previously supposed. Would you concur with this analysis?"

"I would."

"Then," the Korun Master continues, drawing out the word, "while I would like you to know that I was _not_ in favor of what I'm about to do, I was outvoted eleven to one, so you're free to go."

"Go where?" He is almost used to the void now – and knows that if he is thrown out of the Temple again he will simply fall back into the darkness – there is nowhere else to go.

"Home," Mace enunciates. "You are hereby free to go home... _Master Jinn_." And with the last two words, Qui-Gon is suddenly not _nothing_. He is a Jedi again, and he is free, and best of all, _Obi-Wan did not side with Mace_ , despite having every reason to.

"Thank you," he says coolly, following the Councilor out into the corridor. The rush of Light as he crosses the threshold hits him like a duracrete wall, and he gasps with the impact of it, before he settles back into its familiar pattern, instinctive as breathing. In the upstairs corridors, on the way home, the sunlight angles in through every window, and Qui-Gon judges it mid-morning.

At the door to the quarters, Mace halts him a moment. "Padawan Threeb does not live here anymore, but most of your... family are here at the moment. And it is the thirteenth day of spring." _Ah. Perfect timing_. Striding off down the hall, Mace leaves Qui-Gon alone again, so he can draw breath and think for half a moment, before flicking the door open.

The main room of the quarters he shares with Tahl seems crowded – with Xan and Obi-Wan, Bruck and Anakin, and assorted Padawans. Leaning on the wall by the door, Xan is the first to notice him, and raises one hand in a casual, wordless salute. Obi-Wan is on the balcony, looking deliberately out over the city. Nasriel, sitting on the sofa and holding forth to Anakin about something, breaks off in the middle of a sentence and flings herself across the room to her Master.

" _Qui-Gon_!" She rattles when she moves – a second lightsaber clinking against her own. "Got your 'saber. And I'm not grown up at all." Nasriel promptly proves this last, as previously discussed, and when she is up at Qui-Gon's level, arms around his neck and legs around his waist, clinging like a monkey, she takes advantage of the comfortable whispering distance thus afforded. "I love you... and I missed you... and I'm _so glad you're back_!"

"Happy birthday, Sriel," Qui-Gon says.

 **The End**


End file.
